


Desperate Measures for Desperate Times

by TheOceanIsMyInkwell



Series: I Promise You It's Worth It [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Professors, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Claustrophobia, Crack Treated Seriously, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Crossover, Drabble, Drabble Collection, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Harley Keener & Peter Parker Friendship, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Minor Injuries, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Has Anxiety, Peter Parker has PTSD, Peter Parker is a Little Shit, Peter and Tony go camping, Sharing a Bed, Sick Peter Parker, Whump, adding more tags and characters as i fill more prompts, i mean like really seriously, my mantra is take this trash to the highest level or go home, should i be tagging this for pigeons and fibre arts??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2020-02-26 10:14:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 24,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18714964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOceanIsMyInkwell/pseuds/TheOceanIsMyInkwell
Summary: “But people don’t stop needing Spider-Man when the clock strikes twelve, Mr. Stark! This isn’t--this isn’t--I dunno, superhero Cinderella!”“Superhero Cinderella or not, Spider-Man is still a sixteen-year-old kid that needs to be home and safe and get his rest! What about school? What about Aunt May? What about everything else ahead of you?”“I don’t think my ten-point trig quiz really matters when you’re staring at an entire building of people about to roast to death, Mr. Stark.”“And what matters to me is I don’t wake up to hear the news about the friendly neighborhood roasted spider!”“I was fine!”“Hiding a second-degree burn from me and claiminghickeysinstead? Yeah. Sure. Totally fine. Super duper fine.”“I have super-healing! That’s why I can do these things.”“You know what I have, huh? You wanna know? Super anxiety. Because of you."In other words, a collection of pure Iron Dad fluff in 1.5K words or less because that's what we all need to heal as a community amirite(Ongoing. Chapter count will go up as more prompts are filled.)





	1. Friendly Neighborhood Roasted Spider

**Author's Note:**

  * For [josywbu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/josywbu/gifts), [QueenBoudicatheGreat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenBoudicatheGreat/gifts), [notapartytrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notapartytrick/gifts), [writerwisegirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writerwisegirl/gifts), [frostysunflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostysunflowers/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Fulfilling prompts 64 & 65, requested by @josywbu, based on [this Tumblr drabble challenge](https://theoceanismyinkwell.tumblr.com/post/184655738898/drabble-challenge).
> 
> 64: "Here, take my blanket."  
> 65: "I don't want you to stop."

It’s been an hour and thirty-seven minutes since he and Tony last spoke, and God, is it killing Peter.

Which...to be fair, if one were to hear that fact out of context, one would think that Peter is a clingy little shit. He’s not. Not usually. 

But tonight it’s just him and Tony alone somewhere in the middle of Sara-freaking-Toga in the woodsy upstate New York, and if only he hadn’t lipped back to Tony after being confronted about the whole dashing-into-a-burning-building-at-two-in-the-morning incident, then it wouldn’t be so awkward between them right now. Honestly. Even the chorus of chirping crickets is beginning to sound judgy, and it’s getting on his nerves.

Peter clicks his phone on and off for the umpteenth time that night, sees that barely a minute has passed, and rolls over into a tighter cocoon in his flimsy sleeping blanket. Half past eight is way too early for any Gen Z kid in their right mind to be in bed, but it seems like the only viable option when your sole traveling companion is about five feet away in the same cramped tent, sniffing and rubbing his goatee every few minutes while pretending to scroll through emails projected from his hologram watch.

_“But people don’t stop needing Spider-Man when the clock strikes twelve, Mr. Stark! This isn’t--this isn’t--I dunno, superhero Cinderella!”_

_“Superhero Cinderella or not, Spider-Man is still a sixteen-year-old kid that needs to be home and safe and get his rest! What about school? What about Aunt May? What about everything else ahead of you?”_

_“I don’t think my ten-point trig quiz really matters when you’re staring at an entire building of people about to roast to death, Mr. Stark.”_

_“And what matters to me is I don’t wake up to hear the news about the friendly neighborhood roasted spider!”_

_“I was fine!”_

_“Hiding a second-degree burn from me and claiming_ hickeys _instead? Yeah. Sure. Totally fine. Super duper fine.”_

_“I have super-healing! That’s why I can do these things.”_

_“You know what I have, huh? You wanna know? Super anxiety. Because of you.”_

_“And regardless, those people would have been super dead if I hadn’t gotten there in time!”_

_“Then that’s when you act like a normal person and_ call _me, Peter!”_

Okay, so maybe Mr. Stark does have a point. Kinda. Sorta. But does he really have to highlight Peter’s age all the time? Peter’s been doing the neighborhood hero gig all on his own in his thrift-store sweats since even before Tony found him, thank you very much. Heck, Tony sought him out _because_ of his super-pajama career being broadcasted on YouTube.

Peter huffs through his nose, long and heavy and a little painful. The air’s been getting steadily frostier, and the sleeping bag and extra blanket aren’t doing much to insulate his thermoregulation-less body. He could ask Tony if they packed a third blanket, but then that would involve _words_.

“Here,” comes Tony’s gruff voice at his side, so suddenly that Peter gives a bodily jerk. “Take my blanket.”

Peter is so stunned for a moment that he forgets he’s supposed to be radiating _grudgy_ and _moody_ and _teenage superhero angst_. “N-no, it’s--it’s fine, Mr. Stark. I got one already. Two, actually. It’s really not that c-cold.”

Tony breathes out a long-suffering sigh, takes a moment to slowly pinch the bridge of his nose in the classic dad gesture, and shoves the entire mass of fluffy red polyester in Peter’s direction, still without looking at the boy. “I can literally hear your teeth chattering, kid. We didn’t just get you out safe and sound from a burning building for you to just perish from pneumonia.”

Grudgingly, Peter pokes his head out of his (rather useless) blanket burrito, reaches out a hand and snatches the extra fleece blanket. He will later deny at all costs that he nearly purrs at the warmth when he bundles the third blanket around himself.

“It would be kinda uncool,” he concedes with a sniff.

Tony answers with another sniff. “Yeah, well. At least you’re letting me prevent your imminent death this time. I’ll take what I can get.”

Peter swallows and sighs. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark.”

Something in the way Tony’s shoulders have been strung together with tension, as if he were a marionette on a coat hanger, abruptly loosens. The relaxation practically flows through his arms, casts a soft curve to the muscles of his silhouette in the dim glow of FRIDAY’s blue display. 

“I’m sorry, too. I was just--”

“Worried. Yeah, I know. I get that. You’ve been trying to tell me that a lot lately. Guess I haven’t really been getting the message.”

Tony finally lolls his head to the side for the sake of cocking a brow in Pete’s direction. “Understatement of the century. But, listen, for what it’s worth--I don’t know. Frick. I’m terrible at this. What I’m trying to say is, it’s hard because--because I know you personally.”

Peter frowns. “You know the Avengers personally, too.”

“Not the same way I know you.” Tony’s mouth snaps shut with a click. He hauls in a deep breath, as if he wants to take back the statement as rapidly as he blurted it out, but there’s no going back. “Look. I talk about your school and your curfew and your aunt and, and, and your age, yeah, I do, because I look at you and I see how much _potential_ you have. Frick. You’re sixteen. _Sixteen_. Do you even get what that means? You’re not even done with high school yet and--hold on, lemme finish--you still have the chance to go to college, go to your first real party, have a stupid night out with your friends, pull all-nighters, get addicted to coffee, fall in love again and again and...you can build new things for Spider-Man _and_ for the community with that genius brain of yours and--” Tony seems to choke on his own words and the torrent of emotions ebbs as he folds his arms and quickly glances away.

Something uncomfortably warm twinges in Peter’s chest. Something so sweet it’s painful, that realization of _oh my God, this is what he’s meant all along. He--he cares about_ \--

“Sorry.” Tony waves a shaky hand in the air. “Water under the bridge. You’re right. You got home, you were safe, your wounds healed. You knew the risks you were taking on when you became Spider-Man. This isn’t--this isn’t something I should be taking away from you. In more ways than one you’re a, you’re an adult, I mean, well, you can make your own decisions and I should stop, I dunno, _helicopter parenting_ you so much like Rhodey says--”

“No.”

“Excuse me, what now?”

Peter rolls over to the left to face Tony completely. It’s a bit awkward and hilarious in hindsight, considering he’s still bundled up in his burrito, but it’ll do. “No. I don’t want you to stop.”

Tony blinks. Once, twice. Blows out a breath between his teeth like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“People caring about each other isn’t, uh, isn’t always about being soft and supportive,” Peter goes on, mentally adding the “TM" meme to both those words. “Sometimes it’s about knocking sense into their heads ’cause you’re crazy worried about them and their safety. Uncle Ben...we fought quite a bit before he, you know. Because he cared about me. I know that. And I know you get mad at me for the same reasons. And honestly, it’s...kinda nice to have somebody there yelling in your ear when you’ve gone too far.”

Tony purses his lips.

“N-not because the yelling part is nice!” Peter hastens to add, yanking a chuckle out of Tony. “I mean. Like. ’Cause you know you actually _have_ someone in your corner who cares enough about you to do the yelling.”

A smile tugs at Tony’s mouth. Before he knows it, he’s full-on grinning, a wobbly, toothy kind of smile paired with a crinkling at the corners of his eyes, and he’s pushing an offending curl from Peter’s brow. “One thing I can promise you, Underoos--I’ll always be in your corner eager to do the yelling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Well whaddya know, Kaleb isn't dead. I swear this hiatus wasn't because of anything bad, I've just been sorta dying with my PhD program over here and trying to keep a responsible adult-like schedule by focusing on school first until the semester ended. And now I'm (kinda) baaaack. (Just two more papers to finish writing and I'm all yours, my lovely mushrooms.)
> 
> Also this drabble was supposed be less than 1k. But let's be real, folks. I write 5k+ word chapters on the regular and my oneshots are like...sometimes 10k. It was a real struggle to keep this concise, y'all. Especially since our two favorite superhero dorks basically write themselves onto the page.
> 
> Feel free to scream at me in the comments! (No Endgame spoilers, please, for the sake of whoever else is reading this.) It's good to be back omg can't wait to hear from you all <3 I love youuuu -Kaleb


	2. Designer Mattresses Are Overrated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Midnight cuddles make everything better, including lacerated palms from mysterious injuries. Also, Tony just wants to make good use of his own damn couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 9 based on [this drabble challenge](https://theoceanismyinkwell.tumblr.com/post/184655738898/drabble-challenge): "You can't banish me! This is my bed too!"
> 
> A/N: Let’s just sidestep the fact that May isn’t in this and say she’s on a ‘business trip,’ shall we?

“Tell me if it hurts, bud.”

“N-not a bit.”

“Uh-huh.” 

_Clink, clink_. Peter watches the two particularly large and jagged shards of glass clatter onto the distressingly expensive china dinner plate. Tony lifts a brow, tweezers poised in the air between the two of them. Peter can feel the tiny puff of Tony’s breath against his face. The man’s heart beat is rapid, just a little off-kilter. He’s nervous. 

Despite the discordant symphony of his heart rate playing on a loop in Peter’s super-ears, Tony lifts a seemingly calm brow. He gives a soft laugh, not ungentle. “You wanna try that again?”

“It’s not that bad,” Peter modifies. 

Tony sucks in a quiet breath as he extracts a deep-rooted shard from Peter’s palm and glances up just in time to catch the wince flash across the boy’s face. “Look,” Tony mutters. “I don’t think you’re doing our trust policy any favors here, kid.”

Peter sighs. “We have no foolproof anesthesia for me yet, plus I got super-healing. It’s not a big deal, Mr. Stark.”

Tony tips his head from one side to another as if in reluctant concession. “Slow progress, but it’s progress. I’ll take what I can get. Still”--he grits his teeth and pulls out what seems to be the last of the glass--“whoop, ah, there we go. Still, just because you got no painkillers doesn’t mean you have to pretend it doesn’t hurt. Y’know.” He waves a hand airily before snagging the china plate off the counter to dump the broken glass in the trash can. “Trying to not get you into the habit of playing off injuries for the sake of preserving masculinity and--”

“Oh my _God_ , I don’t do it to preserve my _masculinity_ , I just don’t want to be a bother--”

“Bingo.” Tony points a finger in his direction. “You’re not a bother. Inadequacy problems, solved.”

Peter squints and then sags on the bar stool. “You’re the worst therapist ever.”

“Thanks, kid. It would be alarming if I was a good one, considering I didn’t go to school for that.” The muffled gush of water from the tap interrupts them as Tony scrubs his hands in the kitchen sink. “All I’m trying to say is, when the injury is bad, you don’t have to grin and bear it. That’s how the problem gets ignored and you get...septic shock and shit. Oh, and take me out with a heart attack while you’re at it.”

“Oh, boo-hoo, Mr. Stark,” Peter deadpans. “My hand. It _burns_. I’m dying of the pain, I don’t think I can take it much longer. Tell May I lo--”

Tony makes it round the kitchen counter at an alarming velocity to shove a hand over the kid’s mouth. “You’re a little shit, you know that, Parker?”

Peter scrunches up his brow and pulls out the doe eyes on him. “Ever since the day I met you,” he mumbles behind the hand.

Tony frees him from the gag in favor of cuffing him lightly upside the head. “Bedrest for you and no breakables. Strictly plasticware and sippy cups from hereon out. Snack breaks at 10 and 2. And mandatory--I repeat, _mandatory_ \--reports when you feel the slightest worsening in the pain.”

The kid rolls his eyes. “I’m sure it’ll be fine, Mr. Stark.”

It is not, in fact, fine. It is the farthest thing ever from fine, in all the dictionaries in the world defining fine.

At half past three, Peter is still tossing and turning on his mattress and reciting all the different mnemonic songs for the periodic table of elements that he can remember to distract himself from the throbbing in his hand. Frick, he sustained a stab wound before and it didn’t seem to burn this bad. Though to be fair, he does vaguely recall there being more nerves in the hands--anatomy class and all that, which he’s usually half-awake for because it’s his first period of the day--than in the leg.

With a growl of frustration, Peter finally swings his legs over the edge of the bed and stumbles out into the hallway in the direction of the living room. Whenever he or May can’t sleep, they usually end up camping out on the couch, trying to stay awake until their bodies rebel and force them into unconsciousness. Intending to do just that, Peter makes a beeline for the nearest loveseat and collapses forward onto the blissfully cool leather.

“Peter?”

Oh, shit.

“Mr. Stark? W-what are, what’re you doing up?”

“Nah-ah-ah, that’s a question for you. You’re supposed to be resting, letting all that spider DNA do its miraculous healing crap. What gives? Can’t sleep?”

It’s the most random trigger ever, but as soon as the words leave Tony’s mouth, Peter experiences every possible emotion in the span of a second--from shock to shame to horror to hilarious detachment--before he feels the tears prickling at the back of his eyes. He promptly shoves his face into the armrest with a grunt.

Tony heaves a sigh. Peter is hyper-aware of the sound of the man sliding off the armchair and shuffling over--he’s wearing his red flannel pajama pants, the ones that make a particular pattern of swishing sounds--until Tony comes to a halt at the edge of the couch. The next thing he knows, there’s a rough and warm hand brushing the unruly curls from his forehead.

“Mm. Feels nice,” Peter mumbles despite himself.

“Lemme see that hand.”

It must be the overwhelming level of teenage embarrassment of it all that does it for Peter. Either that, or the sleep deprivation and the ghostly buzz of the wee morning that makes anyone lower their barriers. He rolls over from his belly just far enough to reach out his bandaged hand.

“Doesn’t look like there’s any unusual swelling.”

“There isn’t. It just hurts.”

In the dim blue glow of FRIDAY’s night lights, Peter can just make out the lines of Tony’s face above him softening at the admission. “I know it does. Anything I can do to make it better?”

Peter shrugs. His hand is still upturned in Tony’s, long past the necessary time frame for inspection, but neither of them seem to care. “Just tried to lie down in a new environment. Helps sometimes.”

“Yeah? That something May taught you?”

“Yeah.”

“Sounds like a nice idea. Mind if I join you?”

In answer, Peter shuffles closer against the cushions to make as much room as he can for Mr. Stark. The man chuckles and reaches over his head to pull the back cushions out, essentially converting the loveseat into a bed. 

The leather whines and dips under Tony’s weight as he slides into place next to Peter. Unconsciously, the kid sucks in a shuddering breath: the familiarity and the nostalgia of Tony’s lab-stained smell has just hit him at full force in the chest. Suddenly, inexplicably, he feels tired to the very depths of his bones.

“Better?”

Peter hums into the darkness. Tony’s body at his side has cast a comfortable shadow now over his line of vision. “Mm. Better. Thanks.”

“Hey, I’m just making good use of my couch. Which I paid for.”

Peter rolls his eyes at the ceiling. As if sensing the boy’s sass in the dark, Tony swats him lightly across the nose.

“Ouch, your stubble, Mr. Stark. Keep your kitchen knives to yourself.”

A faux gasp escapes Tony. “Ex _cuse_ me, Spider-Kid, I’ll have you know this goatee has been patented, often emulated but never replicated.” As if to rub in his point, he grazes his chin all over Peter’s bare arm. The kid shoves him away with a barely suppressed shriek.

“Bad cuddler!” Peter says, in the same tone one would yell _bad dog_. “You’re banished!”

“What the--you can’t banish me! This is my bed!”

“It’s mine now!”

Peter seriously curses his spider-sense (or lack thereof) then, because barely a second later Tony’s growling and yanking him bodily onto the carpet. 

“If I can’t have it”--Tony pants out between failed tickle attempts--“nobody--else--can!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: COME YELL AT ME IN THE COMMENTS EYY WHAT ABOUT THAT FAR FROM HOME TRAILER


	3. Astronomical (Professor-Student AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gratuitous Iron Dad professor-student AU we all knew was coming ever since my favorite professor installed himself into my life as my adoptive dad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For @QueenBoudicaTheGreat, who sent in prompt 24: “It’s six in the morning, you’re not having vodka.” (with a specific request to make this Tony speaking to Peter, plus fluff. I changed the time for obvious reasons)

When Tony shook Peter’s hand after the last lecture at the end of fall semester and told him _“I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around, Mr. Parker”_ with a wink and a pat on the shoulder, he hadn’t exactly meant _I’ll be seeing you around three times a week the entire spring semester, at all hours of the day, slouching on my office couch to argue about formulas and steal my brand-name coffee_. Granted, he was secretly delighted that first day in February when the kid knocked on his office door with his thin-lipped grin and breathy stutter to ask for help with the Morris Foundation engineering contest, but nothing on earth could possibly intimidate him into admitting that. Codes of professionalism and quashing of paternal feelings and all that.

Even if the office does tend to feel a little colder and emptier now without the kid hanging around in it.

Still, he feels like it’s high time that they actually get to work in the lab next door--sans the free espresso machine--so Peter can focus and get his prototype up and running at least two weeks before the deadline.

“No espresso machine in here, I see.”

“Good morning to you, too, Mr. Parker.”

Peter, the little shit, checks his watch. “It’s three in the afternoon.”

“All the more reason for you to act like a normal person and not come barging in here like some caffeine-addicted gremlin.”

The kid lets his backpack slide from his shoulder onto the dusty floor of the lab and raises a brow at him. Tony feigns a scowl back, using two fingers to push his own styrofoam cup of half-drained coffee behind the nearest computer monitor--together with about three other empty cups.

“Looks like somebody was up all night,” Peter huffs out as he hoists himself onto the nearest stool and wheels over.

“Yeah, no kidding. Those eyebags could fit baguettes.”

Peter slaps down a green binder onto the lab table (where the _hell_ did he get a three-inch ring binder to materialize from?) and slides it Tony’s way with an infantile _whoosh_ sound under his breath. “Old news, Dr. Stark. Are you even a student if you _don’t_ have eyebags? You, on the other hand, have no excuse not to be taking care of yourself.”

Tony stops the binder’s trajectory with a palm, still making eye contact with the kid to convey how supremely unimpressed he is. “You can’t prove anything.”

“Who said I was trying to prove anything, Dr. Stark?” Peter cups his cheek with an angelic smile.

“Save the smartass for the schematics, Mr. Parker.”

“Aye-aye, Dr. Stark.”

“Enough with the 'Dr. Stark’ crap.”

“What? Why? That's your name.”

“It was,” Tony stresses with a prim sip from his coffee cup (screw trying to hide the caffeine, honestly), “until you started throwing it around to _mock_ me. Call me Tony.”

“To--ugh, no.” The kid scrunches up his nose. “It sounds weird.”

“Oh, it does, does it?”

“I'm serious!” Peter's voice pitches up an octave and a half. “I got so used to, like, calling you a four-syllable name. Plus, my uncle's favorite barber is called Tony. That's just--hngh.” The kid suppresses a visible cringe at whatever embarrassing childhood memory just resurfaced.

Tony bumps his own chin with a fist for a moment, thoughtful. “Huh. Okay. What about...Mr. Stark.”

Peter tries it out on his tongue. “Mr. Stark?”

The man's upper lip twitches. “Yes, Mr. Parker?”

Peter opens his mouth, then snaps it shut and decides instead to roll himself forward with a hilarious squeak on his wheeled stool. Tony raises a brow at him, bemused, as the kid approaches with the bright-eyed determination of a beagle with its nose set on the bone.

He should have known something was up the second Peter leans with a grin splitting his face. But by then, it's already too late.

“Save the smartass for the schematics, Mr. Stark.”

\--

Peter doesn’t end up winning the Morris Foundation contest. Tony hears about it through the grapevine about a day before the official results are posted--he’s a full professor in the electrical engineering department, and he’s friends with the assistant professor whose wife is one of the judges on the panel--and for long, hot minute he debates emailing Peter about it.

_Nope. No. Clingy. Overbearing. Clingy bad._

Besides, what would he say about it, anyway?

He’s pretty bitter about it, to be honest, but he doesn’t want to pass on any unnecessary rancor to the kid and dampen his spirits further. The truth is, Mr. Parker was and always has been his most brilliant student--the most brilliant of his class year, he’d dare say--but some other professors don’t seem to think the same way.

Two days pass and Tony is positively antsy in the loneliness of his office. When the unmistakable four-beat rap on his door finally comes, he flinches and has to uncurl his fist to loosen the tension in his shoulders.

“Mr. Parker, come on in,” he calls out evenly.

Peter trudges in with his backpack half-zipped and an obviously unlaundered plaid shirt thrown over his graphic tee, looking about as disheveled as a PhD student in the middle of writing a dissertation on caffeine withdrawal. He wastes no time in collapsing on the tiny couch to the side of Tony’s desk. He gives a dorky little salute with two fingers. “Hey,” he croaks out belatedly. “...Mr. Stark.”

Tony doesn’t know why, but somehow he must have expected Peter to switch back to calling him _Dr. Stark_ after the bad news. It’s inexplicable. Still, hearing the moniker from his lab days with the kid even now brings him an indescribable relief.

Almost like he hasn’t disappointed Peter in every way possible.

“Somebody cleans up nicely,” Tony quips lightly. “Everything good, Mr. Parker?”

“Oh, yeah.” Peter groans and tilts himself into an upright position. “Super great, actually. I’ve been in contact with Dr. Dublin and she--”

 _Dr. Sara Dublin, the one on the judging panel_. Tony’s stomach squirms uneasily. Before he can stop himself, he blurts out, “I heard, Peter. I just wanted to say that, for what it’s worth, your project had a brilliant design and execution, and I’m sorry that it didn’t make it to the third round. I have full faith in you and that genius brain of yours. And your hard work. This may feel like a huge obstacle at the moment, but in the grand scheme of things? Bigger and better things are to come. Think global. Think astronomical. That’s where your future lies, Peter. It’s all waiting for you and you’re gonna go out and _get it_.”

Peter bites his lip and suddenly seems absorbed in the pattern of hangnails around his cuticles. “Thanks, Mr. Stark. I, uh, I--really appreciate all the time you invested in this. In--me, y’know? Even though--like--this is just a, just a _freshman_ contest thingy, um…”

The sheer lack of confidence in Peter’s admission makes Tony want to leap up and just smother him in a hug or something. Anything to get him to shut up. Viciously, he shoves his hands between his knees to calm the paternal urge.

The utterly idiotic thing that comes out of his mouth instead is: “A shot of Grey Goose vodka right now wouldn’t make you feel better, would it?”

Peter’s head jerks up. His eyes dart to Tony’s half-open drawer, then back up to the man’s face. He squints. “I’m seventeen.”

Tony feigns open-mouthed shock. “Oh, good _grief_ , they’re accepting _Teletubbies_ now? Back in my day--”

“Back in your day, you went to MIT at fifteen, _Dr._ Stark.” Peter smirks. “Also, just so you feel better, ’cause I know you’re feeling all kinds of guilty right now and you _shouldn’t_ , I actually feel okay about how the whole contest turned out. I had this idea to, like, revamp the concept to help with the women’s overnight admission program over at the Harvard Square Homeless Shelter, so I pitched it to Dr. Dublin and she was super excited because she could recommend me for this higher freshman grant, like, way higher than the one I would’ve won anyway with first prize, so when I--”

“Wait, wait, wait, wait.” Tony feels like his brain is about to implode. “Are you saying you’ve been in contact with Harvard Square and Dr. Dublin _and_ looking into the Werther Grant over the span of two days while I’ve been here twiddling my thumbs and worrying about the state of your self-esteem?”

Peter pretends to flick a speck of lint from his jeans. “Your words, not mine.”

Tony sucks in a stinging breath through his nose. “Hey, Mr. Parker?”

“Yeah, Mr. Stark?”

“Off the record, you’re a little shit, you know that?”

“I learn from the best, Mr. Stark.”

“If you say so. No consolatory vodka for you, then.”

“Wait, you were actually serious about that?”

“I was, until I realized you didn’t need help anymore from an old man like me.” Tony lays a dramatic hand over his chest.

“But, but--I’m just a poor, overworked, sleep-deprived engineering student and my dreams for the future just got _crushed_ \--”

“It is eight in the morning, Peter Parker, you are not having vodka.”

“What about shawarma?”

Tony pretends to consider. “Fine, I’ll settle for shawarma with my least favorite student--”

“One o’clock, Mr. Stark!” Peter’s already swinging his backpack up off the carpet and bounding out the door with a thousand-watt grin. “Don’t be late! It’s gonna be”--he wiggles his brows--“what’s the word? Oh, yeah. _Astronomical_.”

Tony leans over his desk to call out after the kid’s retreating figure: “You’re a little shit, Parker!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ahahahahah the joke about a PhD student writing a dissertation on caffeine withdrawal is totally not a diss on myself nope no not at all
> 
> Side note, I'm getting super _super_ into this universe now, so would y'all care or like it if I posted more stuff in the professor-student AU? Lemme know in the comments below! <3 -Kaleb


	4. Bisexual Tin Can Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony pretends he doesn't absolutely adore helping out the kid with a bake sale. Peter is a little shit. May Parker, as always, is supremely unimpressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For @notapartytrick, who sent in prompt 42: "Stop being so cute."
> 
> Idk how I feel about this. It was just a keyboard smash and I really, really, _really_ wanted to include an unimpressed May Parker in this. Enjoy...I guess?

“At the risk of sounding sexist, I really don’t think lavender is your color.”

Tony pops his head out from behind the fridge to come face to face with May, who is leaned against the lintel with her arms folded coolly over her chest. His head is swiftly followed by none other than Peter’s. The man’s expression is caught somewhere between amusement and embarrassment, while Peter’s is an unabashed and toothy grin. Both are sporting far too much flour on their noses and cheeks to hint at a casual baking accident.

“I get the feeling you’re jealous it looks better on me,” Tony retorts.

May shoots him an angelic smile that he absolutely does not trust. It’s times like this that he can see the uncanny family resemblance between her and the kid. “Oh, on the contrary, you wear it like couture. But if you get one fleck of egg yolk on my favorite apron, I swear to God--”

“Don’t worry, May,” Peter pipes up traitorously. “He was super careful with your apron. So careful, actually, that he wiped his eggy hands on my _hair_ instead--”

Tony rounds on him with a murderous glare. “Watch yourself, Underoos. It’s still in there. I could easily fry an omelette on your head with a blast of my gauntlet.”

“All murders will take place strictly off premises,” May interjects. “We need our deposit back on the apartment, Tony.”

Peter takes advantage of Tony’s speechlessness and the ensuing lull in the conversation to hop off the counter (when did he get up there? May shakes her head at him in fond exasperation) and drop a kiss on May’s cheek. “How was work?”

“Boring. Lots of sick people. Patients who wouldn’t stay in bed. The usual.”

Tony wags a brow at her. “Makes me wonder why you even go out to take care of them when you’ve got a perfect patient right here.” He points in Peter’s direction with his wooden spoon.

“Somebody’s gotta pay me so I get to come home and take care of this one for free from the bottomless love of my heart.” May wraps an arm around Peter’s shoulders and resists the urge to give him a noogie. “So. Anybody gonna explain to me why we’ve got a flour war going on here? And more importantly, why Tony Stark is standing in my kitchen with a bain-marie?”

“Betty was supposed to be heading the bake sale for decathlon, but she broke her ankle two days ago. I mentioned it to Mr. Stark and he just showed up with bags of baking supplies.”

“Oh, c’mon, kid, you practically forced my arm,” Tony scoffs defensively. “May, he makes it sound like I volunteered for Betty Crocker’s job.”

“I can see nobody forced you to wear that apron,” says May.

Peter holds up four fingers in her line of vision. “ _Four bags_ ,” he mouths at her with a solemn nod.

“Fine,” Tony huffs. “But I'm not taking any credit for your idea to decorate the cookies with Iron Man masks.”

“Mr. Stark. You wanted to put Spider-Man faces on them.”

“And why not? He's a local hero. Betty would be proud.”

“ _Betty_ ,” says Peter petulantly, “would think I have a crush on Spider-Man.”

Tony narrows his eyes at him. “Well, do you, Peter? _Do_ you have a crush on Spider-Man?”

“This is--this is ridiculous.”

“You're ridiculous.”

“You're both ridiculous,” May cuts in. “Also, something's burning.”

Tony lets a colorful string of words and turns back to the stove to scrub at the smoking chocolate with his spoon. Peter flies to his side to turn down the flame.

“Christ on a bicycle, kid. What happened to those super nostrils? Why didn't you warn me?”

Peter rolls his eyes. “You're in our apartment, Mr. Stark. Something's always burning here.”

“Hey!” May cuffs him lightly on the back of his head, with little heat behind the gesture. She shoos her nephew away from the stove with a hand. “Honey, there's a red towel in the linen closet, could you get it for me?”

“Yes, ma'am.” 

“And the stove cleaner from under the sink!”

Peter salutes at her as he walks backward down the hall. “Yes, ma'am!”

“Stop being so cute,” Tony grumbles.

Peter lays a hand dramatically over his chest. “You--you think I'm cute?” 

Tony rolls his eyes. “Yes. Now stop it.”

Another salute and a cheeky grin. “Yes, sir.”

May lowers her voice conspiratorially. “Knowing him, he's just over the moon because he must’ve sneaked a photo of you in that apron.”

“Oh, dear,” Tony deadpans. “I fear the wrath of Instagram. What _ever_ will I do with my precious reputation as a flaming bisexual tin can man?”

Both adults start at Peter’s shrill holler from the direction of the bathroom. “Forget the Iron Man masks, I’m decorating the cookies with _Bisexual Tin Can Man_!”

“Oh, so _now_ you have super hearing?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only know how to write Peter as a smol panicking boi or a little shit. There is no in-between.
> 
> (No self-projection here, move right along, folks)
> 
> Thanks for reading and lmk what you think!! :D -Kaleb


	5. Cactus-Sitting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony may be a genius at many things, but his kid tends to render him a block of absolute idiocy. Most especially at times like this, when the scintillating comment that blurts out of his mouth is: “Why the hell does Ted’s pet cactus look like a penis.”
> 
> Peter throws him an over-dramatic gasp. He makes a show of covering the cactus’s ‘ears’ and widens his eyes at Tony in horror. “Not in front of Edward! He’s very sensitive and he’s got a fragile self-esteem.”
> 
> This...this day, Tony thinks. This freaking day. Could it get any more bizarre?
> 
> “Edward,” he repeats dumbly.
> 
> “His needles sparkle in the sunlight."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the anon who sent in prompt #76: "Please put your penis away." This one had me wheezing. Never fear, no real penises appear in this drabble. I do always appreciate a good creative challenge, though ;)

“G’morning, Spider-Diapers, care to explain to me why you’re looking like a Christmas tree on this fine July day?”

Peter makes a face at Tony, only to be betrayed by his own body tripping over the multiple plastic bags and assorted...odds and ends that are balanced _somehow_ on his arms and back and knees.

Tony’s face wars between a sigh and a grin. He holds up a hand. “Don’t, bud. Don’t even try. You’re just proving my point even further.”

Peter just makes it to the living room couch--barely--and collapses onto his stomach over the armrest with a tiny _oof_. More plastic bags rustle when one of his arms falls limp to the carpet.

Tony perches on the back of the couch to peer at the kid through his curtain of bangs. “Seriously, Pete. What’s with the twenty-restaurant takeout?”

“Mrs. Leeds always insists on giving me food when they go on vacation,” Peter mumbles into the basket weave cushion. “Like, a _lot_ of food. And clothes. And spare towels and things she thinks May’ll like. I swear it’s like she thinks the gifts will disappear once they hop on a plane.”

A real grin creeps its way onto Tony’s face at the boy’s grumbled explanation. He’s met Ned quite a few times by now, and he knows a thing or two about Filipino generosity.

“So you decided to bring everything to the tower for our fishing date.”

“We are _not_ having a fishing date. We’re going boating and then stargazing. There’s a clear aesthetic difference, Mr. Stark.”

“Uh-huh. Don’t talk to me about aesthetics, Spider-Boy. I’m Iron Man. I practically invented style.” Tony starts digging around one of the open plastic bags that’s splayed on the couch--out of boredom and the need to keep his hands busy, more than anything else--and sure enough, there’s a neat row of lavender and sunflower yellow towel sets, folded in true Marie Kondo style. “Still haven’t answered my question, though.”

“Well, May’s gonna meet us here tomorrow anyway, and I was thinking of putting some of the linens and stuff in her guest bedroom here before she comes over.” Peter rolls over into a supremely more uncomfortable position on his side, his hip slung over the armrest, in favor of getting a better view of his mentor’s face above him.

Tony’s mouth twitches and his chest twinges with that warm and achingly sweet _something_ that seems to blindside him more and more often now that Peter is in his life. This kid. Honestly.

“Also.” Peter holds up a finger with one hand and smears at his eyes with the palm of the other. “I brought the food ’cause you really gotta try Mrs. Leed’s cooking. I dunno what I’d do if I didn’t have her in my life.”

Tony raps the side of Peter’s cheekbone playfully with a knuckle. “Oi. Watch it, Aunt Macaroni could be listening.”

The kid rolls his eyes. “Aunt May knows I love her, but my metabolism would be _weeping_ if Thai takeout and Mrs. Leeds didn’t exist.”

“That--that date loaf sure was a...journey,” Tony concedes. “Speaking of--have you eaten yet?”

“First breakfast, but not second breakfast. There’s ensaymada in the other bag.” Peter’s head pops up from the couch faster than anyone can say _Spider-Man_. Tony rolls his eyes at the _Lord of the Rings_ reference, to which Peter pokes out his tongue--the audacity, _God_ \--and offers the boy a hand up. The man barely suppresses a yelp as he comes into contact with something sharp and definitely stinging on the kid’s palm.

“The hell, kid! What’s that on your hand?”

“Oh. Whoops, sorry.” Peter proceeds to casually pluck out what seems to be a goddamn _needle_ from the middle of his own palm and chuck it into the nearest trash can behind a potted plant. “Eh, just cactus needles. I’m cactus-sitting Ned’s babies while the Leeds are on vacation.”

“C-cactus-- _babies_ \--hold up. Hold up.” Tony springs to his feet, as if the motion will clear his confusion any faster. “Come again?”

Peter fishes out a tiny terra cotta pot from the jacket of his anorak ( _what the fuck, Parker, who keeps a goddamn cactus in their pockets?_ ) and holds it up for Tony to see. Sure enough, a spray of tiny hair-like needles falls to the carpet from the miniature cactus in Peter’s hand.

Tony may be a genius at many things, but his kid tends to render him a block of absolute idiocy. Most especially at times like this, when the scintillating comment that blurts out of his mouth is: “Why the hell does Ted’s pet cactus look like a penis.”

Peter throws him an over-dramatic gasp. He makes a show of covering the cactus’s ‘ears’ and widens his eyes at Tony in horror. “Not in front of Edward! He’s very sensitive and he’s got a fragile self-esteem.”

This...this day, Tony thinks. This freaking day. Could it get any more bizarre?

“Edward,” he repeats dumbly.

“His needles sparkle in the sunlight. Ned was a Twihard. I mean, don’t tell anyone, but like, I’ve always secretly been a Twihard too because those books have _so much_ comedic potential--”

“ _Edward_ ,” Tony stresses again, sounding almost frantic. “Edward the cactus. Who looks like a penis.”

“Mr. Stark, I promise he’s not so bad once you get to know him. I mean, look--” And Peter makes the mistake of stepping closer, miniature pot outstretched, that goddamn wide-eyed puppy look of sheer sincerity on his face. Tony practically convulses. It takes every ounce of self-control within him not to karate-chop his own kid right then and there.

“No. _No_. I am not having _Edward_ or any of his _sparkly needles_ within five hundred feet of my breakfast, thank you very much.”

“But Mr. Stark--”

“ _No_! Bad spider! Put your penis away.”

“Don’t listen to him, Ed. He shows his affection in mysterious ways--”

“I do no such fucking thing, Parker.”

“You call me names all the time. Case and point: ‘bad spider.’”

“B-because you are!” Tony splutters. 

“It’s okay, Mr. Stark.” Peter grins. “Love you, too.”

“I swear to God, if I have to pick a single needle out of my breakfast, it’s over. No fishing date for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw, ensaymada is a real Filipino breakfast bread that's basically like a fluffy potato bread roll dunked in butter, sugar and white cheese. Sometimes it has a sweet coconut filling. Truly the bomb.
> 
> (I was also a Twihard in my tween years and there is no shame in admitting that. I mean, as far as the movies go? That soundtrack got some absolute bangers.)


	6. Mr. Drapey-Capes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How’s the ribs doing, Pete?” asks Tony.
> 
> Peter finally takes a pause to yank off the mask that’s been suffocating him for the last twenty minutes. The air about them is certainly filthy, but cooler and easier to breathe. He gives a few gasps before answering. “They’re fine. I can make it. I think Harley broke a kneecap.”
> 
> “Did not,” Harley shoots back. “That’ll be your kneecaps if you make this any more embarrassing than it already is.”
> 
> “You think you know embarrassing? Remind me to tell you about the time a civilian turned out to be a nurse and she _laughed_ at my suit because--”
> 
> “Christ on a carousel,” Tony groans. “No wonder you two are a freaking disaster together. Whose idea was it to go full Rambo-mode and drive into the garage, anyway?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For aihoshiduo on Tumblr, @joswybu, and two anons, who requested prompt 54: "They're not your kids, back the fuck off."
> 
> aihoshiduo sent: "They're not your kids, back the fuck off." Endgame ending never happened. Peter and Morgan (and hell, Harley too if you want) are getting into shenanigans of some kind (I can see them all tinkering in the lab or something), and PLOT HAPPENS, cue angry/upset Avengers (in the compound or the tower, living together) judging and/or scolding and Tony going full Mama Bear (tm) in response. Please and thank you <3
> 
> josywbu sent: boy, oh boy, lemme remind u that you wanted this. 54. protective irondad. someone’s too close for comfort to his kid(s) and boy will he let them know
> 
> anon 1 sent: 54 pls!! maybe Steve gets mad at Peter for joining a fight he wasn’t supposed to and Tony gets all offended because that’s his kid and nobody else gets to lecture him? I’d love to read whatever you come up with for this! thank you!!
> 
> anon 2 sent: for the iron dad drabble challenge. 54: they’re not your kids, pretty please? <3
> 
> I definitely changed up the requests a bit, but I hope it satisfies you all!!

“This is no laughing matter, Spider-Man. Harley.”

Peter’s face is on fire underneath the mask. He’s positive if he were to pull it off, his cheeks would be as ablaze as the crimson of his spandex suit. He glances sideways at Harley, who’s woefully in no better shape than him, leaned against the wreckage of what used to be a million-dollar-worth vintage sports car and rubbing discreetly at what Peter suspects is a dislocated shoulder. The other boy, however, has managed to maintain an angsty scowl of truly teenage proportions. Peter swallows, almost envying him.

“S-sorry, Mr. Thor,” Peter manages to croak out. “I know it was a calculated risk and in hindsight we probably shouldn’t’ve--”

“That was not a calculated risk, my friends. That was recklessness. The hubris of youth. We need the vigor of young warriors, yes, but never once must we forget the lives of the very people we fight to protect.”

Peter fidgets. He wishes he had his mask to fiddle with in his hands, but no way is he taking it off now. Not when he, as Spider-Man, is already shrinking before the god of thunder and feeling like little more than a speck of dust in the path of the Asgardian’s wrath. The lenses on Peter’s mask wobble as he blinks behind them, his throat dry and stopped up--perhaps with the ashen taste of the broken concrete from the parking garage that just collapsed behind them, or perhaps with the bile rising up inside him at the realization of what they’ve just done.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” Peter babbles. “I mean, there wasn’t anyone in the garage, although--”

“There were people on the street near enough to have been harmed,” Thor cuts him off. He plants his axe in the ground beside him and folds his arms over his chest. “And the commotion created by the dust caused a panic among the team. The attention of the monsters could very well have been diverted here. What then? What of the bystanders on the walk? Had you no awareness of how swiftly they could have descended on the civilians? The captain told us that we were to--”

Thor’s next words are drowned out by the roar of repulsors and the unmistakable metallic clang of a suit touching down on the asphalt behind them.

Peter gulps. He’s frozen, unable to even turn around. He locks eyes with Harley, who for the first time is evincing some emotion other than defiance.

“Thanks for the lecture, Point Break, I’ll take it from here.” Tony strides forward, having yet to retract his mask, and gives Harley a quick once-over. “You good, Keener? We taking you to medical or what?”

Harley purses his lips and shrugs, which was obviously a mistake by the way he grimaces when the movement jostles his shoulder. Peter finally unglues himself from the pavement and rushes forward to support Harley.

“I think he popped a joint,” Peter says.

“And you?” A mechanical whir as Tony’s helmet swivels in Pete’s direction. His tone is brisk, though not unkind. “Any unknown injuries to confess?”

“I think two cracked ribs--nothing displaced. Landed funny on an ankle. Maybe something on my arm that needs a stitch,” Peter rattles off. He’s learned by now to come up with the list right off the bat rather than sit through an hour-long lecture for it later.

“Stark,” Thor’s voice booms from their side. “I know you must take our two companions to the MedBay, but you must know our conversation is not finished.”

Then, and only then, does Iron Man’s helmet retract with a speed that makes even Peter take a step back. Tony’s eyes are hard underneath. “Oh, I think it is. I appreciate your concern, Sparkle Fingers, but I’ve got it handled.”

“We cannot let such recklessness continue to define the work of our team,” Thor insists. He steps forward, perhaps not intending to appear aggressive, but apparently coming off as such all the same, if Peter is to judge by the way Tony matches the god’s strides until they are standing nose to nose.

“And I am not gonna stand here and listen to you rail on them when they clearly need medical attention!”

“I was not about to suggest that! I simply do not trust this important talk to continue in the direction it should if--”

“Then that’s exactly what you’re suggesting! Newsflash, Drapey-Capes, these guys are teenagers. _Teenagers_. We make mistakes, okay? We fuck up. But nobody is hurt--nobody except these _kids_ right here--and unless I see an ambulance pulling up to collect civilian bodies, then there is no emergency. We are benching this conversation, here and now. Peter! Harley! We’re going.” Tony motions sharply with his head at the two boys.

Peter heaves Harley onto himself by his good side. Harley grunts out a characteristic “ _fuckin’ A_ ” under his breath.

“And it is for this kind of tolerance that recklessness continues to reign among the Avengers!” Thor calls out. There’s a tenor of desperation, a half-bitten apology in his tone, but it’s lost to Tony beneath the layers of anger and accusation in the god’s words.

Tony whirls, and the sheer energy of the movement is so frightening that even Thor himself sways back on his heels. “They’re not your kids, Point Break. Back. The Fuck. Off.”

For once, the command makes the god halt in his tracks, eyes twitching and mouth snapping shut. Tony turns back to the boys and comes in at Harley’s other side.

“How’s the ribs doing, Pete?”

Peter finally takes a pause to yank off the mask that’s been suffocating him for the last twenty minutes. The air about them is certainly filthy, but cooler and easier to breathe. He gives a few gasps before answering. “They’re fine. I can make it. I think Harley broke a kneecap.”

“Did not,” Harley shoots back. “That’ll be your kneecaps if you make this any more embarrassing than it already is.”

“You think you know embarrassing? Remind me to tell you about the time a civilian turned out to be a nurse and she _laughed_ at my suit because--”

“Christ on a carousel,” Tony groans. “No wonder you two are a freaking disaster together. Whose idea was it to go full Rambo-mode and drive into the garage, anyway?”

“Mine,” Peter pipes up, at the exact same moment that Harley lifts his good hand to grumble out, “Mine.”

Tony pauses to study them with narrowed eyes. “Huh. One of you is obviously lying, and if previous history is any reliable indicator, I’d say it’s you, Parker.”

“Hey!”

“It’s true,” says Harley. “I’m a little shit, but I don’t lie.”

“No, I don’t! You all find out about my injuries and stuff anyway!” 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Tony rejoins in a tone that says anything but, “I meant, you’re the one who lies: just very badly.”

“I don’t lie!” Peter insists. “I just make the executive decision of when to release information depending on who’s gonna panic when they find out.”

“Eep,” says Tony. “Lying by omission. Look, I know you’re trying to protect Keener, but let him own up to his own harebrained plans.”

“True,” Harley says with a tired grin. “Can’t have you stealing all the credit for my idiocy, Parker.”

“I thought it would work,” Peter mutters. “I mean, I could’ve stopped him--”

“I was the one that took the wheel,” Harley points out.

“Because you’re four months older and you’re the one with the license.”

“Oh, wow, _Spider-Man_ with his _ripped abs_ and _jacked muscles_ couldn’t stop me from following through with a stupid plan because he has no _driver’s license_ \--”

“Oh, my _God_ ,” Tony groans. “Why the hell did I even invite you up here? I’m shipping you back to Tennessee, Keener. Pack your bags. You’re going on the next train with bales of hay headed south.”

“ _Hey_.”

Peter suppresses a giggle. Over the top of Harley’s head (read: sweaty, matted mess of curls), he and Tony make eye contact. Pete instantly sobers. _I’m really sorry_ , he mouths at the man. _I messed up_.

Tony heaves a sigh. A smile twitches at his lips. He doesn’t respond for a minute, then says aloud in a voice far too cheery for the situation: “No worries, Spider-Baby. I’m sure you can more than make up for it by sitting with Harley through his stint with the pain meds. Oh, and getting on those driving lessons. I take it Keener here has some scintillating technique to show you.”

Peter’s eyes widen to the size of saucers in horror and betrayal, sending Tony doubling over right then and there on the sidewalk with peals of laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was texting my writing buddy @QueenBoudicaTheGreat about this like 30 minutes before I wrote it like "lol which avenger should lecture pete and harley" and she was like "steve or clint but i know you like to mix things up a bit so why not thor" and i was like "psych I love that" and so here we are.
> 
> Btw, Thor is a Good Boi and the light of my life, but I couldn't help but make him come across as a little mean bc he's very concerned for the wellbeing of the citizens. Don't be too hard on him!
> 
> This is my first time trying my hand at writing Harley and idk if I did him justice bc this is just a keyboard smash style drabble after all, but it won't be the last time you see him in my writing! Any tips? Feedback? Suggestions? Just general reactions? All comments welcomed! <3 -Kaleb


	7. Tony Stark's House Rules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Y’know,” Peter croaks out, reaching for another square of toilet paper, “there’s a lot more interesting shows to watch than me puking my guts out.”
> 
> “Oh, no, please, by all means, continue. I can’t imagine what could be more fascinating than this.” Tony gestures with a hand in the boy’s direction, his public-image bravado slipping in just a bit to cover up the unsteadiness of his own voice.
> 
> Peter opens his mouth to retort something, then swiftly turns a more ashen shade of green than before--if it’s even possible--and lurches for the toilet again. His knees quake a bit from the effort of his squatting position before giving out and crashing to the tiles in a messy, uncoordinated kneel.
> 
> “I’m coming over,” Tony warns, in what he knows must sound like the stupidest voice ever.
> 
> “No!” Peter gasps out. “Stay back! You’re gonna get sick!”
> 
> “Nope! Not listening! I’m coming over now and you can’t stop me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For @joswybu, who sent in prompt 37: "Welcome to fatherhood" with the request to be a quote from Rhodey to Tony.

Tony feels as though a gigantic hand has reached into the cavern behind his ribs and wrenched out his heart. Which, considering that more people than he would like have actually done that to the nifty arc reactor that used to keep his glorious body going, it’s not a far-fetched metaphor at all. He winces again as Peter, looking so small and pale and quivering, gags a couple more times into the toilet bowl.

“Y’know,” Peter croaks out, reaching for another square of toilet paper, “there’s a lot more interesting shows to watch than me puking my guts out.”

“Oh, no, please, by all means, continue. I can’t imagine what could be more fascinating than this.” Tony gestures with a hand in the boy’s direction, his public-image bravado slipping in just a bit to cover up the unsteadiness of his own voice.

Peter opens his mouth to retort something, then swiftly turns a more ashen shade of green than before--if it’s even possible--and lurches for the toilet again. His knees quake a bit from the effort of his squatting position before giving out and crashing to the tiles in a messy, uncoordinated kneel.

“I’m coming over,” Tony warns, in what he knows must sound like the stupidest voice ever.

“No!” Peter gasps out. “Stay back! You’re gonna get sick!”

“Nope! Not listening! I’m coming over now and you can’t stop me.” Tony takes four strides forward and halts right above the kid’s head. His chest clenches at the sight of Peter’s hair in disarray, sticking up every which way and beginning to glisten with sweat where it meets his brow. _Oh, kid_.

Tony nudges the side of Peter’s thigh with the toe of his Converse. “Try to sit up a bit.”

Peter mumbles out a protest but obeys anyway, leaning back on his haunches. His eyes are barely open--practically slits--and his lips are whiter than normal, cracked in places. “Go ’way, Mr. Stark. You’ll catch it.”

“Buddy.” Tony crouches next to him with a fresh wad of toilet paper and reaches forward to gently dab the stains from Peter’s chin. “You’re talking to the king of vomiting escapades. If there’s one thing that lovely decade of wanton living should’ve taught me, it’s that throwing up is just gross, not contagious.”

Peter frowns. He mutters something else unintelligible and makes as if to shove away Tony’s hand. The man makes a _tsk_ sound under his breath and bats away the boy’s fingers. 

“What if I’ve got a virus?” Peter rasps.

“Doubt it. Your spider genes hate being sick. They throw tantrums and kick the intruders right to the curb.”

Peter pops open an eye at him, somehow managing amid the whole near-fainting Spider-Kid aesthetic to still look unbelievably unimpressed. “Pre’y sure that’s not how my spi’er DNA works.”

“Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure there’s less talking than this when somebody’s sick. Can you drink?”

Peter’s eyes begin to water at the mere prospect. “Won’t be able to keep it down.”

“C’mon. Even a tiny sip of water?”

Peter’s other eye comes open. He glances at Tony’s person suspiciously. “You have a bottle of water?”

“Me? No, no no no, this is my emergency vodka in my jacket.”

“That what you calling your SmartWater these days to sound cooler?”

Both Tony and Peter snap their heads up at the teasing lilt of Rhodey’s voice. The latter has just poked his head around the corner of the stall with a small wave.

“Hey, Tweedledum. Tweedledee.” Rhodey nods at both of them. “You feeling all right, Peter?”

“Better,” Peter reports, at the same instant that Tony snarks, “He’s been quibbling with me for five minutes straight to hide the fact that he can’t stand up.”

“Ugh, why do you have to be so _smart_ ,” the kid complains.

“Kind of part of the brand,” Tony shoots back with a sniff. “Y’know, the whole building-armor-in-a-cave and inventing elements? Remember that? My reputation sorta requires me to be a genius.”

Rhodey approaches and pats Peter’s shoulder at the same time that Tony clambers to his feet and pulls the kid up by an arm from the other side. Together, both men heave Peter’s dead weight up to his feet and shuffle him forward to the sink. Peter releases another piteous groan, at which Tony grimaces in sympathy and lets him rest against the cool fiberglass surface. He unscrews the cap of his water bottle and holds it to Peter’s lips. “Drink.”

“I’m not a baby, I can hold it myself,” says Peter. His refusal to meet Tony’s eyes tells the man just how embarrassed the boy must be right now. Sure enough, Peter makes a Herculean effort to twist around and call out a “Sorry! So sorry, Mr. Rhodey…” at the other man who’s slipped back into the stall to flush the toilet.

“Pete, what’s rule number three?”

“Uh…” Peter sips cautiously from the bottle and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “Don’t keep secrets from Aunt May?”

“That’s rule number two. Because it’s almost just as important as rule number one, don’t hide any freaking--”

“--Injuries from you because you’re Iron Man and you’ll always find out,” Peter finishes for him.

“See? Knew you were top of your class for a reason. Now. What’s rule number three again?”

“Erm…”

“No apologizing for things outside your control. Right? _Right_? Geez, what is it with you Parkers and this thing with responsibility?”

“Thought that was a Tony thing,” Rhodey quips mildly. He finishes up scrubbing his hands in the next sink over and flicks a spray of water in Tony’s face on his way to the hand dryer on the wall. “What’s this I hear about house rules, anyway, huh? You writing a how-to dad handbook?”

“Oh, yeah? You try raising an annoyingly self-sacrificial teenager that runs around the city in pajamas and keeps apologizing for shit he didn’t do, and then tell me you don’t need some house rules.”

“Been there, done that,” says Rhodey. “Sounds just like you in sophomore year of MIT.”

Peter chokes audibly behind them. Tony whips around and starts to thump the kid on the back a bit too enthusiastically while Peter splutters on his water and dribbles into the sink below him. The man raises a finger to Peter’s face menacingly, at the same time that he uses his other hand to rub soothing circles across his back. “You listen to me, young webhead. Don’t take a thing he says seriously.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Peter says, just a tad hoarse but every bit as sarcastic as his normal self. “My lips are sealed. Mind, wiped. Don’t remember a thing. What even are we talking about, again? Hey, Mr. Rhodey? What kind of pajamas did Mr. Stark wear?”

Tony gasps. “The _mouth_ on this one! If you weren’t five seconds from fainting again I’d be knocking you into next Tuesday.”

“But, Mr. Stark,” Peter croaks, “you’ve already got a FRIDAY.”

Tony’s mouth drops open, appalled.

Rhodey grins like a cheshire cat. “Welcome to fatherhood.”

Tony wets his fingers and runs them through Peter’s curls, quite a bit more forcefully than necessary. Peter suppresses a yelp of surprise as the man continues to aggressively flatten his hair down. “First we’re getting some superhero Pepto-Bismol in you, and then I’m cashing my raincheck on this sass fest.”

“Peter? Honey?” May’s muffled voice interrupts them through the bathroom door. “Guys? Is everything all right?”

“I’m fine!” Peter calls back in between dry coughs.

“You sure? You’ve been gone for an awful long time. Long enough for one of you to give birth in there.”

Rhodey cracks open the door to a startled May. “Nobody’s giving birth to anything,” he assures her.

“On the contrary, bestie, I think I’ve just birthed a Spider-Brat.”

“Mr. Stark?”

“Yeah, bud?”

“As soon as I’m not feeling nauseous, I’m gonna have to kick your butt.”

“I can’t be of much help, but I’ll bring the snacks,” May deadpans. She reaches through the opening in the doorway and presses the back of her hand against her nephew’s forehead. “Well, at least you don’t feel warm.”

Tony is too busy spluttering. “Colonel Rhodes. Can you _believe_ this?”

“Sorry, Mr. Stark,” says Peter, as the three men shuffle out in single file and head back to their booth with May. “You came up with that one. Rule number seven: you gotta give as hard as you get.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sickfics are either super angsty or the stupid kind of funny. There is no in between ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> (I aggressively headcanon May as throwing around birthing jokes like there's no tomorrow because she works in the maternity ward)


	8. Gross (tw: Panic Attack)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony and the kid are trapped in an elevator at Comic Con, of all places. Peter has a panic attack because let's be real, elevators are gross and claustrophobia is gross and he's just done with everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For aihoshiduo and anon on Tumblr, who requested #43: "I feel like I can't breathe." (Changed up the line a bit because I honestly forgot what it actually was as I was writing and couldn't change it anymore without messing up the flow, oops)
> 
> ALSO. I am officially past the point of caring about word limits. Drabbles? What's a drabble? Did somebody say dra--WELL. Lily did comment on the last installment that they wanted longer posts, so here I am, just giving the people what they want. :)
> 
> Trigger warning: Semi-detailed description of a panic attack induced by PTSD and claustrophia. Stay safe, lovelies!

“Elevators are gross.”

“Oh? Is there a particular reason this time why it’s gross, or is this one of those teenager fixations with the word _gross_ and you won’t let me hear the end of it until I agree?”

“Elevators are _gross_ ,” Peter gripes again. He shifts from foot to foot at Tony’s side as the two turn to face the double doors that close in front of them. Tony crosses his hands while Peter brings his left thumb to his mouth and nibbles. He’s already been biting at his nails periodically throughout the drive over, so it’s not unexpected that what’s left of his hangnails is now almost nonexistent. 

From the side of his vision, Peter catches the tail end of Tony’s mouth twitching. The man continues to stare ahead through his favorite pair of rose-tinted shades--he keeps the golden-hued ones in the glove compartment of his Audi--but to the boy, who’s known him practically forever now, there is no mistaking the exasperated fondness emanating from every little movement of Tony’s.

“Guess you must’ve gotten spoiled getting into FRIDAY’s elevator every day, not having to touch any sticky buttons,” Tony remarks.

“I’m sticky enough for the entire population of New York,” Peter snarks back. “Also, FRIDAY’s elevators are, like, way bigger. They’re spacious and shiny and she tells me how the weather’s been on the ride up when it gets too long. Oh, and she definitely tells me when was the last time you ate, so I know when you’re lying and you said you already had lunch.”

“Aw, shucks,” Tony says in a monotone. For the first time since they entered the elevator, he cocks his head to the side to get a better look at the kid. “You’ve taught FRIDAY well, young buck. Now she’s a traitor and I’m gonna have to disown you both.”

Peter scoffs loudly. “Um, you’re the one that designed the Baby Monitor Protocol to _spy_ on my embarrassing encounters with criminals! And you have FRIDAY send my vitals to your watch, Mr. Stark. Your _watch_. That one time you called me all freaked out because you thought I was having a heart attack at like, nine in the morning? I was taking a _history quiz_. If there’s anyone who’s taught FRIDAY to be, I dunno, traitorous and _neurotic_ , it’s you.”

“Hey! It wasn’t entirely inconceivable. I’ve had heart failure at way earlier times in the morning, Underoos.”

Peter turns to fully gape at him, and Tony stares right back over the rims of his glasses, seeming not to have realized the full implication of his wisecrack until Peter groans “ _oh my God_ ” under his breath and draws both hands down his face. “Oh my freaking God,” the boy whispers again. “Th-that’s--that’s not helping.”

Tony is about to shoot back a reminder to Peter about the first time he got an alert from FRIDAY of the boy’s vitals tanking because of an apparent near-drowning in a lake when he’d given strict instructions to the teenage superhero to lay off the big guys; but then he notices the genuine emotion coursing through Peter here and now at the mere notion of Tony’s heart hiccuping, and at the last minute he thinks better of it.

“Hey now,” Tony says again, much softer this time. Even. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Peter quickly removes his hands from his face under the guise of running them through his own hair. He doesn’t let his hands fall back down to his sides, but instead clutches at the lock at the base of his nape and blows out a breath from his cheeks. “Yeah. Y-yeah. That’s true. That’s good.”

“Sorry, kid,” Tony says sincerely. “Didn’t know it was a sensitive subject. Duly noted.”

The boy grunts in reply. Then he admits, “Not really a sensitive subject, exactly, I mean--well, obviously your health is super important to me, Mr. Stark, but also, like, I know you’ve been doing this for a while? And, um, not that I don’t trust you to be able to handle your heart failures like a pro--” Peter scrubs his forearm over his brow, another of his recognizable nervous tics. “Oh, geez, that sounded _really_ bad. I’m just, um, I’m just kinda jumpy right now and talking about your near-death experiences is? Sort of not helping?”

“Gotcha,” the man says with a tight-lipped nod at the rambled confession. “What’s got you all nervous? I swear we’ve still got time to change before the main thing starts.”

“Yeah, no, I mean, yeah, I know that.” Peter’s reply comes out a bit abrupt, though Tony reads nothing into it because if there’s one thing that has changed significantly over the last year and a half of knowing the kid, it’s being able to recognize what would ordinarily seem to be rudeness to actually be another tic of a distracted and anxious mindset. 

Tony flounders for a bit at first, searching his brain for an appropriate follow-up to that. Finally he settles on: “It’s gonna be great, bud, you know that, right? You’re gonna have loads of fun.”

Peter releases another soft whoosh of breath, quietly enough that Tony suspects the kid thinks he didn’t hear it, and so he elects not to comment. “ _We’re_ gonna have fun, Mr. Stark. You and me, together. That was the whole point of this.”

“Uh, no, I clearly recall you bounding into my kitchen like an over-caffeinated chihuahua on Saturday--which, by the way, you’re not drinking caffeine now, are you? Because I’m gonna have to impose a strict ban on hyperactive super-teens that stick to anything and everything in sight. Don’t give me that look. You know exactly what I’m referring to. Point is, _you_ came bouncing in, _I_ was just minding my own business and having my morning coffee--”

“--It was your fifth cup--”

“--It is physically impossible to have five cups of coffee before eight in the morning, Parker--”

“--Not impossible if you pulled an all-nighter, and I _know_ you did because FRIDAY is my bestest friend ever and she tells me things, unlike you--”

“--Low blow, Pete, low blow. And what the hell were you doing up at eight in the morning on a Saturday?”

“There are two ways to be able to get up at eight on a Saturday morning, Mr. Stark. Either you stay up ’round the clock pretending to _not_ drink coffee like a zombie that never learns his lesson, or you could fall asleep to a good book and soothing whale sounds and get up as soon you see the sun.”

“The sun’s overrated,” Tony grouches, without any real heat or meaning behind it. “What book was that, anyway? _The Theory of Everything_?”

“Bold of you to assume I would actually fall asleep to Stephen Hawking. It was _Breaking Dawn_.”

“I’m--okay. All right. I’m okay. This is fine.” Tony’s voice pitches up and he tucks the ends of his hands aggressively into his armpits as he bounces on the balls of his feet. “Everything’s fine. I share custody of a web-shooting toddler who lectures me on sleep schedules, drags me to Comic Con and reads bedtime stories about sparkly vampires. Everything’s perfect.”

“There was no dragging whatsoever,” Peter protests. “I can’t even drive.”

Tony carries on muttering as if he never heard the kid. “Have a superhero kid, they said. It’ll be fun, they said. Well, nobody ever said anything about--wait. Are we even moving?” He jiggles the sticky round button for floor 12 again.

Just like that the light bantering energy is zapped from the air between them. Peter steps closer to Tony--presses up against the man’s left arm a bit in the process--and peers at the panel of buttons. He raises his head then at the exact moment as Tony, in a comical tandem that is lost on both of them in the confusion of the moment, and surveys the ceiling and the walls for any sign of stalling.

Unconsciously, Tony finds himself laying a hand on Peter’s shoulder to keep him at his baseline of calm (he realizes with an internal start that there are already the finest of tremors running through the kid’s body under his hand, and fuck, that only speaks to how nervous Pete has been this entire time in the elevator without saying a word) as he presses the red emergency button to be connected to the elevator operator and waits for someone on the other end to pick up.

Peter melts a little into his mentor’s touch, though try as he might, the beating of his heart has begun to steadily accelerate to a near gallop. His eyes dart about again at the corners and edges of the ceiling. He’s positive the whole square of halogen lights could be lifted up--most elevators have an easy exit at the top by which to access the shaft--but then the mere thought of the dark tunnel up toward nothingness amid a sea of cables and screws and groaning metal under his feet does little to assuage his anxiety. He swallows repeatedly.

“Great!” Tony says, the false cheer laid on just a little too thick over his voice. “They said somebody should be up shortly. There’s just a bit of a power issue, and then they’ll be right over.”

“Great,” Peter parrots after him. “That’s--that’s real great.”

“Buddy. Hey.” Tony shakes him by the shoulder, not unkindly, but a little more than gently to grab the kid’s attention. “Everything’s gonna be fine, you hear me? We’ll be in here a couple minutes, tops. Then the nice guy’ll be here to pry it open and we’ll be on our way to the show.”

“Uh-huh. The show.” The show. In all honesty, Peter’s all but forgotten about that. His every thought is consumed with the Herculean energy it takes to keep his own lungs from imploding on themselves. It’s stupid, really, it’s stupid, _so_ stupid, he knows no four walls of steel could really hold him in with his Spider-Man strength--

“We could crawl out the top,” he says weakly, almost to himself. “You could get on my back and I could just--y’know. Crawl. Stick.”

“Book it outta here?” Tony summarizes for him, amusement clearly coloring his tone. Peter turns to him then, and it’s only at that moment he realizes his eyes have been shut. When he blinks and looks up at his mentor, he finds that the man has already pocketed his shades and is gazing back at him eye to eye. Without breaking contact, Tony slides into a one-kneed kneel in front of the kid and gives his elbows a tentative squeeze. “It’s only gonna be a couple minutes, Pete,” he says again. “It would--it would look pretty fishy if we managed to just clamber on out and stick to concrete walls, don’t you think?”

A wet laugh bubbles out of Peter. (When did his voice get so thick?) “Yeah. Y-yeah, I guess. You’re right.”

“’Course I’m right. I’m Iron Man.”

The attempt at a cocky jest, told in a voice that is far too caring and fatherly to hold any weight, somehow makes Peter feel marginally better. He makes the effort to draw deep breaths and haul the air back into his lungs and take stock of his surroundings--not in a panicked way, but self-aware and conscious of the triviality and simplicity of the situation--and he throws a shaky nod Tony’s way. He doesn’t trust his vocal cords to work without embarrassing him. Not yet.

“Why don’t we sit down and get comfortable, meanwhile? No need to stand here stiff as Capsicle’s statues while we’re waiting on the elevator guy.”

Peter aquiesces immediately. It doesn’t take much for Tony to tug him down toward the carpeted floor and lean back against the railing and the cool, smooth surface of the wall. Peter consciously averts his gaze from the corners of the elevator, diverts his own mind from the fact that they’re sprawled on a patch of filthy flooring less than five feet long by five feet wide.

“Elevators are _gross_ ,” he complains again. Just because being a teenager and saying teenager things is his best defense mechanism now against remembering the very adult-like reasons for his fears and anxieties.

“Yeah, I’m not really feeling the whole paisley thing in wood tones going on here,” Tony agrees lightly.

Not exactly what Peter meant--not by a long shot--but the kid attempts a wonky grin and goes with it. “They’re disgusting and dirty and I don’t know why anybody in their right mind would use carpet in an elevator. Like. Oh my God. Can you imagine all the germs from people’s shoes and luggage and stuff getting all over this place?”

“Filthy,” Tony nods along with scrunch of his brow and a quirk of his mouth. “An abomination.”

“And you get into this enclosed space with strangers who probably smell ’cause they’ve been God knows where and you gotta smile at them and ignore how the old guy is giving you looks, and, like, you can’t prove it but you just _know_ he’s giving you that look, that baby-boomer judgmental look, and you wanna go on your phone so bad to ignore the weird, like, tension and stuff, but if you pull out your phone now when Old Guy is looking he’s definitely gonna say something about my lazy generation killing industries and--”

Tony cuts him off with a chuckle that sounds almost like a low wheeze. “Yeah, kid. I get the picture. Pretty nice vivid imagination you got there.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.” Peter stretches out his legs and winces to himself when his feet hit the double doors with hardly a stretch. He distracts himself by waving his feet back and forth, knocking the toes of his Converse against each other in a clicking rhythm. 

Tony reaches out almost as if he doesn’t realize it and slowly massages Peter’s right knee. “Now I’m going out on a bit of a limb here”--Peter wonders if the dryness of his tone is for affected casualness or total irony--“but I guess I’d venture to say you’ve got some kind of claustrophobia.”

Well, that’s one neat way of putting it. How does Peter even begin to explain the clusterfuck that is his history of traumas?

Instead, what Peter chokes out is, “Nice.”

To his credit, Tony doesn’t bat an eyelash. “You think--uh--you think unpacking this might help ya out? Or you want a good old-fashioned distraction?”

“I don’t know. I dunno--I dunno--can’t feel distracted at the moment,” Peter manages to get out. He sounds almost like he’s gasping. Oh, his heart. It hurts. It’s jackhammering and it hurts and his lungs hurt and there are parts of his ribs he didn’t know could hurt that are hurting and--fuck. No no no. “I can’t,” he says again. A hint of hysteria in the quiet hitch of his voice.

“Okay. Okay.” Tony’s turned to him now and has both hands on his shoulders.

“I can’t b-breathe.”

“That’s okay, bud. That happens. We’re gonna work with you, yeah?” The hands slide up from his shoulders to cup the sides of his face. “Peter. _Peter_. Look at me, please. Can you look at me?”

“Uh-huh?” Peter squeaks out. God, he sounds pathetic to his own ears. 

“I’m here, Pete. This is Tony. We’re in a--well, fuck, grounding you probably won’t help. We’re at Comic Con. We’re in a weird hotel and we just came from a really nice long drive, you tortured me the whole way here with Troye Sivan songs, yeah? You remember that? Look at me. Put your hand over here. Put it right here.” One of Tony’s hands leaves the side of Peter’s face to wrap around the boy’s quivering fingers and place them over the man’s chest. It’s warm, solid, moving, _breathing_. Some part of Peter’s super-senses registers the low hum of the arc reactor that never really leaves his consciousness.

“Listen to that, Pete. That’s my heart. Follow it. And feel my chest expanding. Uh-huh, just like that. You’re doing good. Just a little bit more. Breathe in, hold, breathe out. Hold. Breathe in, hold, breathe out. Make that exhale real nice and deep. And again. Can you go again? Yeah, we’re going again.”

Over and over and over again the cadence of Tony’s deep voice rumbles in Peter’s ears and under his fingertips on his mentor’s chest. Slowly, so slowly, Peter begins to feel his lungs unfurl from the vice grip of panic around them, and his airways open up to let the oxygen in with less of a wheeze. He finds, to his complete and utter mortification, that his eyes are watering.

“O-oh, fuck,” Peter breathes out on a stutter.

Tony tosses him a soft laugh. “Imma let that one slide for now, circumstances considered. No abuse of free passes, young man.”

“Fuck,” Peter says again, louder this time, just because he can.

Tony cuffs him lightly on the side of his temple. “You feeling better?”

“Uh-huh. Thank you. Th-that--that. Wow. Was unexpected. And that really helped. Thanks.”

“Any time, kid. And I mean it.” Neither Tony nor Peter has realized at this point that Tony’s hand hasn’t left Peter’s cheek yet, or that the kid’s hand is still glued to the middle of Tony’s chest. “I’m sorry we’re in this situation, but. It sucks. If I’d known this would’ve happened, and that it would’ve been a trigger for you, I would have just taken the stairs with you.”

“You’re, like, old,” Peter croaks out.

In answer, Tony shoves the boy’s face into the folds of his jacket--prompting a tiny _mmph!_ from the latter--and puts on a tone of mock offense. “And what do you mean by that?”

Peter mumbles something into Tony’s chest, most likely along the lines of _bad back_ or _creaky knees_ or _bones a-crack-a-lackin’_ or whatever, but it doesn’t matter. None of it matters because the man is suddenly caught up in the wave of parental warmth that surges through him at the physical contact that seems to bring the both of them such comfort.

“Seriously, though. Pete. You good?”

A rasp of Peter’s curls as he nods.

Tony cards his fingers through the knots at the back of Peter’s head. “Anything we need to talk about?”

“Just.” Peter gives the most teenager-ly shrug ever with his face still buried far into Tony’s stomach. “Claustrophobia sucks. After the Vulture--the whole building falling and stuff--and then the thing that happened at the Washington monument?”

Oh. _Oh_. Tony had seen the headlines running across the news. An elevator malfunction--Spider-Man saves the day--a daring rescue of schoolchildren from an elevator cut from its cables-- Tony curses himself for not having put two and two together sooner.

“Yeah,” Peter breathes out after a second of silence. Shaky and ashamed. “Yeah, it was--not my finest moment. And when it’s dark and tight, and I don’t know how to--”

“Shh. Shh, it’s okay. I get it. Claustrophobia sucks. I’m sorry for not listening to you, bud. We’re taking the stairs from now on.”

“S’okay, Mr. Stark.” _Oof, this kid. Forever forgiving_. “You would’nt’ve had any idea.” Peter shifts and stretches out his legs so that he faces Tony somewhat with his head in the man’s lap. The boy keeps his palm flat against his mentor’s chest, tapping one finger against the muscle there. “Really, it’s not a big deal.”

“It is, but it doesn’t have to be if you don’t want me to make it a big deal. Still, we’re dealing with this proactively. No self-denial on my watch, Spider-Kid. It’s stairs or escalators. Open spaces from now on. Our bucket list of places to visit? Scratch the Empire State Building off that. There’s _way_ cooler places out there that don’t involve cramped spaces. Listen, we could even go international--”

“Uh,” Peter cuts him off with a tiny grin in his voice, “May definitely hasn’t lifted the international travel ban on me yet.”

“Oops. Right. My point still stands.”

Peter hums--in exhaustion? Contentment? His eyelids droop, and it’s just then that Tony recalls that panic attacks truly do a number on the kid, especially with the way he tries (unsuccessfully) to tamp down his emotions and the anxiety before admitting anything’s wrong. He supposes lying in the lap of the superhero you somehow trust and admire (why on earth, he has no idea) would be a pretty comfortable position to fall asleep in.

Tony pats the side of Pete’s face again. “Catch some z’s, then. Seems like the elevator guy stopped to grab a burger. You good with missing the first show?”

“Mm-hm. ’S fine.”

“Okay. All right. Whatever you say, bud. I’ll be right here.”

“Claustrophia is gross,” Peter mumbles into the hem of Tony’s shirt.

The man is blindsided by the ugly laugh that erupts from him. “Uh-huh. Yup. You got that right. Claustrophobia is gross.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just choked on a laugh to myself because the title of the event, "Drabble Challenge," just well and truly turned into a challenge for me. I have physically incapable of producing anything less than 1k, guys. Much less describing a panic attack in less than 3k.
> 
> As always, this was pure and unadulterated self-projection (I have a deathly claustrophia that prevents me from using elevators unless absolutely necessary, and so I suffer hiking up the stairs instead despite my asthma--fun times). If you, too, can relate or wince in sympathy along with our poor sticky boi, lemme know in the comments below! <3 -Kaleb


	9. Friendship Bracelets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May agrees to teach Peter and Tony to knit to give a very pregnant Pepper some space. Tony, surprisingly, already knows how to knit. Peter, unsurprisingly, is terrible at learning or any type of multitasking when he's busy thinking of names for the Starks' baby girl. May's been done with the both of them since the beginning of all time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the anon on Tumblr who requested #16: "You're getting crumbs all over my bed."
> 
> Credit to @josywbu for always coming up with specific fluffy and domestic situations for me to write especially when that lovely writer's block comes a-knockin'! And yes we both know how to knit, hence my thinly-veiled self-projected frustrations at dropped stitches.
> 
> Per usual, I’m electing to ignore canon (*cough* Infinity War *cough* Endgame *cough*) and involve Peter in the baby-naming process of Tony and Pepper’s girl.

“May.”

“Too confusing.”

“It’s a nice name!”

“I see you trying to earn brownie points with your aunt, and it’s a valiant effort, but no. That would be confusing as hell.”

The aunt in question raises a brow over the gold-wire rim of her glasses at Tony and Peter, who have been spending more time quietly bickering rather than following her instructions on how to knit two, purl one, knit two, purl one, _yes, Peter, you hold the front of the needle with three fingertips on each hand_ , and _Jesus, no, Parker, do NOT stick your left needle straight up from your crotch at my eyes unless you want this room to become a feast from Game of Thrones_.

“Mary.”

“Mm...I’ll consider it.”

“Mariana?”

“Parker, do you think I’m the kind of man who could resist the temptation to call my daughter Mariana Trench?”

“Okay, okay! What about...Madeleine?”

“Cute. A bit longish, maybe?”

“Molly?”

“You got a real thing for ‘M’ names, don’t you, buddy?”

“Polly!”

“Changing one letter doesn’t help now, Spider-Diapers. I’m onto you.”

“Oh, shoot, I dropped a stitch.”

“Use the crochet hook,” May interjects. She shoves her favorite lavender-painted one under her nephew’s nose.

“Wonderful, just equip little Mr. Edward Scissorhands over here with even more sharp objects to make things all the safer,” Tony deadpans at May.

The woman rolls her eyes right back at Tony. “It’s like driving. You’ve gotta let him handle the gas pedal, the gear shift _and_ the steering wheel together at some point.”

“Yeah, at _some point_!” Tony points out, with no small measure of hysteria buried in his tone. “A point three decades into the future. If I had my way, this one would be carrying the car and trotting his way down the street like the Flintstones. Yeah, no. That’s the only acceptable method of transportation for the Spider-Kid, effective now and forever.”

May looks like she’s positively torn between stabbing Tony through the neck with her own knitting needle and vehemently agreeing with him.

“Uh,” Peter says, after a beat of silence. “Aren’t we, like, forgetting that my main mode of transportation involves Tarzanning it around the city?”

Tony pauses to lay down his tie-dye scarf on the bedspread beside him and rub the heel of his palm over an eye. “Christ, don’t remind me.”

“And sometimes I wonder how you thought it was remotely okay to recruit my nephew to fly all the way to Germany and hash it out with some superpowered rogues in an airport,” May says drily. Tony glances up and makes eye contact with her to ascertain that there is no real heat behind the jab.

“That, ma’am, was well before I realized your nephew was a, was a _dork_ that needed to be bubble-wrapped at all times--”

“Hey!”

Tony scoops up his unfinished scarf to rap the kid lightly on the nose with a needle. “Mind your stitches. Did you get the one you dropped?”

“Uh-huh. Geez, I can’t wait for baby Stark to actually be born already so you can go and mother her with your bubble wrap instead.”

“I do not _mother_ \--”

“You _so_ mother. I saw those extra granola bars you stuffed in my pencil case.”

May dips her head, obviously doing a poor job of concealing her smirk. 

“You needed those! Don’t deny it. Trig tests totally suck the energy right outta you.”

“Honey,” May interrupts them, “you dropped three more stitches.”

“Shi--shine a light,” Peter mutters under his breath. He lapses into a frantic silence as he attempts--and fails--and attempts and fails again--to pick up the stitches with his borrowed crochet hook.

May sets down her afghan in her lap and holds out her hands, making tingly impatient motions with her fingers. “Let me.”

Peter shoves the now tangled and increasingly uneven mass of loops in her direction and flops backward from his cross-legged position across the length of the bed. “Who even invented the whole make-some-loops-with-loopy-motions-and-pointy-sticks way of making clothes?” he grouches.

“A saint with incredible patience and creativity, probably,” says May.

Tony ties off the last stitch of his row and pokes Peter’s thigh with the butt of his free needle. “A visionary, for sure. Show some appreciation, kid.”

“Ugh, I’ve already been appreciating your puns all afternoon. I think that’s enough.”

May chokes out a laugh, at which Tony lets his mouth fall open in faux shock. The man cuffs the boy on the shoulder, at which Peter simply rolls away an inch or two and then flops back, cracking open an eye with his faced creased with supremely teenagerly annoyance.

Tony folds his arms and levels a look at the kid. “I liked you better when you were annoying me with baby names. Go back to that.”

That makes Peter shoot upright at an alarming velocity. “Morgana?”

“Again, with the ‘M’ names? And why don’t you just straight-up call her Guinevere?”

May nudges Peter’s knee to hand him back his needles, stitches freshly recovered and re-ordered. Peter accepts it with visible trepidation. At that, May tugs the needles back out of his hands and tosses him a tiny ball of sparkly red yarn instead. “Maybe work on crocheting something instead. I don’t think you’re at the level of knitting and motormouthing at the same time, hon.”

Peter pauses to stick the tip of his tongue out at her, then swiftly follows that up with a kiss blown in her direction. May catches it out of the air between her thumb and forefinger and presses it to her collarbone. 

“I thought you said Mrs. Pepper was considering ‘Morgan,’ anyway,” Peter reminds Tony.

“Oh, uh, yeah. After her uncle. Real nice guy--brought her up most of her life--y’know. Found family sort of significance.”

“See? And you could just add an ‘a’ at the end to make it sound cooler!”

“Next thing I know, you’ll be replacing her pacifier with a lightsaber. I’m telling you now, I do _not_ trust you around her crib, Parker.” Tony cocks a brow at him and points a finger at Peter’s nose.

Peter sniffs, unfazed. He leans over the side of the bed and waves his hand around for the box of Ritz crackers on the carpet--mumbles a _thank you_ to May when she slides it closer to him with her socked foot--and grabs a handful, then flops back on the bed, this time draping his legs over May’s lap under the unfinished afghan and shoving his head against Tony’s stomach. The man releases a tiny _oof_ from the impact.

“Sorry,” Peter says in the most wildly unapologetic tone imaginable. He tosses back a cracker and then holds one up to Tony’s mouth.

“Don’t you dare force-feed me or I am personally sticking this needle where it has no business being stuck,” Tony grumbles.

Peter blinks innocently up at him from his lap. “What? I thought you wanted me to practice being a good big brother. This way I’m fully prepared to spoon-feed baby Stark as soon as she comes. I’m gonna be the _bestest_ brother ever to Morgana--”

“We are _not_ calling her Morgana--”

(Spoiler alert: they are.)

“Am I the only one here even knitting anymore?”

“Sorry, May. I had no idea your nephew was such a baby fever fiend.”

Peter takes advantage of Tony’s distraction then to shove the cracker into the man’s open mouth. His mentor chokes on an inhale and glares down at him. 

“You’re getting crumbs all over my bed.”

“Hm, oops.”

“That’s it, no family scarf for you, Spider-Terror.”

“Oh, _no_ ,” Peter deadpans. “Oh, _dear_.” There’s another second of sassy teenage silence, and when Tony glances down at his lap again, he finds that Pete is already busy unraveling his sparkly red ball of yarn and lining it up with another deeper red ball and a gold one. The kid sticks the three ends between his teeth to keep tension as he braids the strands together aimlessly in the air.

“Oh, so you think _braiding_ yourself a substitute scarf is gonna save you now?”

May snorts uncontrollably from her rocking chair. “Oh, Lord, these jeans are getting too tight for your antics, both of you,” she gasps out between truncated laughs. 

“’M n’t makin’ sc’rf,” Peter mutters through his teeth. At Tony’s unimpressed stare, Peter briefly removes the yarn strands from his mouth to reiterate, “Not making a scarf. They’re friendship bracelets.”

Tony wants to say something snarky back. He absolutely, definitely, unequivocally wants to with every fiber of his being. But something else in him--the bigger part of him--has suddenly melted into a disgusting puddle of emotions that refuses to be put back together.

He could say, _What are you, five?_

Or _This isn’t summer camp, kiddo, we’ll be able to find each other even without bracelets_.

Maybe even _Would look better on you as a necklace_.

But instead, what he finds his mouth saying is more along the lines of: “Red and gold, huh? Wouldn’t, uh--wouldn’t happen to have any significance at all, would it?”

“Nope,” Peter says with a beaming smile, popping his _p_. “Not at all. I was thinking of red and blue for me, maybe, and blue and yellow for you, May. Maybe blue and purple for Mrs. Pepper, you think?”

(The less than oblique reference to Pepper’s choice color of rescue armor isn’t lost on Tony. And goddammit, why are his eye suddenly moist and shimmery? The _nerve_ \--)

“And what do you think would be good for baby M, Mr. Stark?”

It doesn’t even take Tony a second to know the answer. He raises his eyes to meet May’s (and they’re suddenly, suspiciously just as his shiny as his), and then looks back down at this kid, his kid, with his messy mop of hair rasping across his knees, and he realizes that each and every one of his loved ones in this cabin bears a common hue by Peter’s chosen color scheme for the friendship bracelets.

“Huh. Well, uh. I’m guessing blue and gold wouldn’t look half bad together.”

“Blue and gold,” Peter repeats softly to himself. And slowly, gently, that toothy little smile that Tony loves on him so much spreads across the kid’s face. “Yeah. Yeah. That sounds perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not even gonna deny it, I am just weak for situations that call for Peter laying his head casually across Tony's lap. He deserves all the soft and loving co-parenting from Tony and May in the world.


	10. Smol Waddly Birb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter takes a selfie with a pigeon on a rooftop and is having none of Tony's sass about his aesthetic life choices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one goes out to @[notapartytrick](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/notapartytrick), who sent me aesthetic videos of her nature outing only to get the very intelligent text of "smol waddly birb" from me in response to a pigeon waddling across the grass.
> 
> Also in fulfillment of anon's request on tumblr for #34: "You work for me. You are my slave." Idk how this worked but somehow it did ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

“I thought your mascot of choice was spiders, not pigeons. Or did I spend millions of dollars designing the wrong insignia for your superhero persona all this time?”

Peter doesn’t answer for a few seconds as he clicks a couple more selfies with a dorky narrow-lensed smile and one finger pointing at the pigeon that is roosting on his shoulder, looking less than impressed with him. Finally he lowers the phone to scroll through his filter options and deadpans over his shoulder, “Unless you brought me Fudge Webs with extra sprinkles, you have no say in my aesthetic life choices, Mr. Stark.”

Tony’s Iron Man boots clink lightly against the concrete rooftop as he makes his way over to the kid’s side. “Flying two cups of ice cream all the way up here in this heat? If they didn’t melt first, they’d get shat all over by birds instead. You’re gonna have to settle for donuts.”

“Oh, boo-hoo,” Peter says in a monotone. He yanks off his mask and leans over to pluck the strawberry glazed donut unceremoniously from the cardboard box in Tony’s hands.

Tony sniffs. “I was saving that for Pepper, but thanks, I guess.”

“Mrs. Pepper is allergic to strawberries, but go off, I guess.”

“Which is why it would have been hilarious and ironic to give her one with artificial flavoring.”

Peter serves him a look over a mouthful of frosting.

“Okay, fine, I was saving that for myself.”

“Oh. _Oh_.” Peter mimes spitting out his bite of donut and handing it to Tony. “Then by all means, take it back.”

“You’re revolting.”

Peter chomps down on another bit of donut and poses with a hand underneath his chin in a classic kawaii gesture. “I know.”

Tony turns to address the pigeon still slumped half-lidded on the kid’s shoulder. “I can’t even imagine how you tolerate the sass on this one.”

The boy strokes the bird with a finger behind the curve of its skull. “Don’t listen to him. Grouchy old guys can’t seem to take a bit of good comedy.”

The pigeon warbles for a bit, adjusts its wings and burrows its head further back into its body.

“What are you doing taking selfies on rooftops with your small winged friend here, anyway?”

“The sunset turns orange at exactly 7:30, Mr. Stark, and there’s no way I’m missing that bomb lighting. Besides, I just got a boost of like, two thousand new followers this morning so my next post can’t disappoint.”

“Thought you were gonna say you’re selling the shot to the _Daily Bugle_ and I was really looking forward to see how that Jonah pinhead was gonna spin a pigeon selfie into bad rep for you this time around.”

“Ohh!” Peter gasps, in an overly thrilled tone that Tony does not trust one bit. “I _could_ sell it and make some extra bucks for that thing I was gonna get May.”

“If it’s that thing we were talking about, you know I could just give you the extra to get it for her.”

“But it’s the _thing_ , Mr. Stark. It’s special. It’s gotta come from me.”

“You mean it’s gotta come from Jonah-Jemima-Yellow-Journalism.”

“On my personal rating scale of all your nicknames, that lands a solid three.” Peter reaches for a Boston Creme donut this time. “Half a point extra for effort on the alliteration.”

Tony brushes off the jab with an eye-roll. “I don’t like you working for that idiot. You know I could just push that raise through for you if you’d let me, if money was the issue.”

“Which it’s not,” Peter protests. “Not really. I mean, can you _imagine_? Like, if somebody else was selling photos of Spider-Man to the _Daily Bugle_? All my unflattering bits would be on display on the front page.”

“It’s basically a paparazzi paper. Everybody’s unflattering bits are plastered on the front page.” Tony shrugs. “Besides, you work for me. You’re my slave.”

The pigeon startles awake with another warble at that exact moment. Peter turns to it in a pretense of open-mouthed shock. “Do you _hear_ the sass on this one, Polly?”

“Pol--Jesus Christ. You named the pigeon Polly?”

“It was either that, Rambo, or Smol Waddly Birb,” is Peter’s somber reply. 

“Small Waddly--I’m…” Tony sucks in an infinitely deep breath through his nostrils. “I’m done. I’m taking these donuts and I’m done.”

Peter grimaces. “Did you prefer Rambo instead?”

“ _No_ , Peter, I have no preference _whatsoever_ as to what you call your feathered friend. Good _grief_.”

“On second thought, I could call her Morgana. Y’know, considering how you snubbed my beautiful name choices for Baby Stark last time.”

“I swear to God, Parker, if you even consider naming a ‘small waddly birb’ after my daughter--”

Both superheroes’ bickering suddenly cuts off as the pigeon in question hoots and takes that precise second to shit all over Peter’s shoulder.

The kid pales. “Oh my _God_.”

“God can’t save you now.” Tony closes up the donut box with frightening efficiency. “And neither can laundry detergent. Toodles.”

“ _Wait_!” Peter screeches, stumbling after him. “ _You never told me this thing was washing machine safe_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I watched FFH twice :)) That was nice :))))
> 
> My latest youtube video for Pride 2019: [Reacting to My Girlfriend's Gift from Overseas](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wmbC0JQhJk4)
> 
> Tumblr: @[theoceanismyinkwell](http://theoceanismyinkwell.tumblr.com)


	11. Orphan Abuse (B99 Crossover)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May can't get Peter and Tony to get anything productive done by arguing over the phone. Tony's just trying to keep up with all the mysterious adopted family members Peter seems to be picking up that he never mentioned before. Also, it's Thanksgiving, so of course everything is stressful and ridiculous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And once again I fail spectacularly at producing a drabble or anything, really, below 1.5k words. This is me officially giving up. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> In response to [@writerwisegirl](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/writerwisegirl) (liz-a-bell on tumblr) who sent in prompt 97: "You're not going to starve yourself on Thanksgiving."
> 
> Jake Peralta, a main character from the absolutely bomb show Brooklyn Nine-Nine, makes an extended appearance at the end of this oneshot. You don't have to know anything from the show except that Jake is a genius manchild and I headcanon that his coworker Gina is May's cousin.

“Technically, I’m twenty-four.”

“Uh, technically, you’re a _Teletubby_ , so no, you are keeping your paws off the champagne.”

May leans over the dining table to stick her head closer to the phone on speaker. “Rosé.”

“Oh, sorry, I meant you are keeping your paws off the pink champagne. Aunt’s orders.”

“ _Tony_ \--”

The man scoffs. “Calling me ‘Tony’ now isn’t gonna convince me you’re any older, Underoos.”

“Mr. _Stark_ \--”

“Nuh-uh, you just started calling me Tony and I feel three decades younger again. No takebacks now.”

“This is why nothing gets done with you two on the phone,” May grumbles. “Honey, what time does your midterm end?”

“Uh, two in the afternoon, which is really ridiculous ’cause that’s, like, _prime_ nap time, but whatever--”

“Two tomorrow or two the day after?” Tony interrupts with a scrunch in his brow.

“Two tomorrow. The twenty-first, two days before Thanksgiving, remember? Boy is that a tongue-twister.”

“Shit,” Tony says under his breath.

“Mr. Stark said a bad language wo--”

“You’re deaf, you’re going senile, you heard nothing,” Tony talks over him. “Pepper’s coming back from Singapore at one-thirty tomorrow. I’ll just send Happy to get her, then. Hang on, I’m calling him right now.”

“You will do no such thing,” Peter and May chorus together, and frankly, if May Linetti Parker weren’t so damn frightening, Tony would have doubled over laughing.

“Mrs. Pepper’s gonna be super pooped and she _could_ be pregnant again and the first thing she’s gonna want to see is your dumb face, obviously,” Peter points out in the most teenagerly _duh_ voice he can muster.

“You have a dumb face.”

“You’re a child,” May says.

This time it’s Tony and Peter’s turn to answer in unison: “Gee, thanks.”

“I could probably let Carly know I’m taking flex hours tomorrow and just come get you myself,” May offers.

“ _No_ , May, you are not missing another day of work!” Peter squeaks. “They have these things called Uber now!”

Tony waves two fingers in the air as if the kid were sitting across from him. “Yeah, no, I’m not letting your baby-faced ass get into an Uber all the way from Massachusetts to here.”

“If you’re worried about me spending, you know you gave me your credit card--”

“--Glad to see you’ve finally learned how to take advantage of your old man’s wallet, but no, that is not the point. The _point_ is--”

“Happy should get Peter, then,” May interjects, because honestly, she’s the only one with any common sense under this roof anymore.

“ _Sorry to interrupt, Boss_ ,” FRIDAY most definitely interrupts in her cool voice from the ceiling. “ _Happy Hogan just asked me to tell you right away he’s needed at NYU Medical where his favorite aunt is probably dying_.”

Tony’s first reaction, of all things, is to round on May with narrowed eyes.

May raises her hands defensively. “I’m _an_ aunt, Tony, and I may be Happy’s favorite, but I’m not _his_ aunt. He’s probably talking about Glenda.”

“This is ridiculous,” Peter’s as-yet prepubescent voice cuts them both off. “I should just ask one of my friends to drive me and pay for their gas money.”

“I thought Ned already left campus?” says May.

“Yeah. I was thinking of Daisy.”

“Is that the lesbian who makes cannibal jokes?” Tony asks.

“Uh, no, she’s straight.”

“I coulda sworn she was gay.”

“You’re probably thinking of Jenni,” Peter explains quickly. “To be fair, they both talk about eating men and the patriarchy, just in...like...different contexts. Anyway! Daisy’s the one with the buzz cut. And you don’t have to worry, she explicitly said her type is blond asshole.”

“Guess that means we can sic her on Harley instead. How old is she, anyway? Does she have a license or a learner’s permit? Where did--”

“She’s eighteen and yes, she has a license--”

“Nope. You’re gonna let somebody _younger_ than you drive you all the way from--”

“Oh, so now you acknowledge that I’m twenty-four when it’s convenient? Classic helicopter d--”

“Okay, okay, okay! Zip it!” May stands up so suddenly that she knocks the secondhand dining chair to the tiles. “Peter, call your Uncle Jake. I know he’s free.”

Peter’s tone brightens considerably. “Oh yeah! Uncle Jake would be perfect.”

Tony stops rolling cookie dough to glance back and forth between May and the phone. “...Excuse me, Uncle _Who_ now?”

“Uncle Jake!” says Peter. “I have a live uncle, you know. I mean, technically, he's not my uncle, he's friends with my aunt's cousin, and they work together and he's a cop and...oh, I should probably stop calling him Uncle because that's bad luck.”

“Yeahhh,” Tony drawls, “we're gonna talk about the sad orphan bit later. How old is he? Where is he from? Does he have his own car?” He waves off May’s eye-roll impatiently in the background.

“Well, he's like thirty, I think--”

“Unacceptable. FRIDAY, is my second jet all fueled up?”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Peter screeches into the speakerphone. “Somebody detach me from my body right now. I’m hanging up, Mr. Stark, and there better not be a private jet behind my dorm tomorrow or I’m telling the dean about that plaque you took from the second-floor chem lab.”

Tony gasps. “ _Rhodey_! I swear to God--”

The last thing he and May hear is Peter’s tinny cackle before the line disconnects.

\--

Uncle Jake, it turns out, appears to be in his thirties but acts much more like a slightly older version of Peter with darker humor and fewer inhibitions. That is to say: like a jaded, slightly aged-up, still hyperactive puppy.

“All-righty, Petey, that should be the last of your...one and half kid-sized backpacks of belongings. Seriously, dude? It’s Thanksgiving break and you _don’t_ haul all your laundry home to get it washed for you?”

Before the kid has a chance to respond, Tony rounds the corner of the kitchenette and shoots a cheshire-cat grin in the direction of his ward and the newcomer in tow. “Uncle Jake, I presume.”

“I prefer just Jake, because ‘uncle’ tends to give my name a weird pervy vibe.” Jake sticks out his hand with an open-mouthed grin. “Tony Stark, I presume?”

Tony takes his hand. “Just Tony...Just Jake.”

“Eyyy.” Jake points in Tony’s direction with an approving nod. “I like your old man, Peter.”

Peter plops his bag down on the carpet behind the couch. “You’ll like him less when he starts talking more. Where’s May and Mrs. Pepper?”

“I resent that, you know,” Tony calls after him, pointing in the direction of the boy’s retreating figure.

Peter’s answering retort is muffled. “You resent everything.”

“It’s on-brand.”

“That’s not true,” Pepper says mildly, stepping out of the kitchenette with her heels off but still towering like a goddess in her carmine red suit. “You resent the kid least of all. Hi, Jake. I’m Pepper.” She tacks on a winning smile.

Jake definitely does not have a blackout -babbling-fanboy moment as he pumps _the_ Virginia Potts’ hand over and over.

May pops up in the still-open doorway, decked out in her work scrubs. She envelopes the guy in a hug. “Jake! Long time no see! How’s Gina?”

“Long time no see Gina, either. As in, I just saw her yesterday even though she doesn’t work at the Nine-Nine anymore, and her last text was more than three hours ago.”

“ _Please_ don’t invite Aunt Gina over for Thanksgiving,” Peter pleads from his perch on the kitchen counter.

“Oh?” Tony perks up with interest. “I thought you were all into the adopted family shit.”

Peter’s cheeks flush hotly. “I’m an _orphan_ , Tony. This is--this is _orphan abuse_.”

“This is like, live entertainment. So much better than _Say Yes to the Dress_ ,” Jake stage-whispers to May at his side.

Peter serves them all a look. “Can I go now? No, you know what, I’m an adult. I’m going now. I’m walking out the door. See ya. Bye.”

Tony attempts a stern bellow at him and, predictably, fails at it. “Peter Benjamin Parker, where do you think you’re going?”

“ _Outside_ , to get, like, a _croissant_.”

“Nuh-uh, you are not gonna starve yourself on Thanksgiving. Come back inside and have some pumpkin cookies while I help May burn the turkey. You know you need all the calories you can get for your--” Tony stops abruptly, rubs his goatee. Attempts a half-aborted wink. “-- _Extracurriculars_.”

Jake bites back a grin, hands on his hips. “Just say ‘Spider-Man’ if you mean ‘Spider-Man,’ old man.”

The entire room collectively freezes.

Tony rounds on Peter, who already has his hands up and eyes wide like a puppy caught digging in the backyard. “I swear to God, Mr. Stark, I didn’t even say--”

“You’re grounded, Parker.”

“Mr. Stark! I can explain!”

“In his defense, I am just an amazing detective-slash-genius,” Jake interjects with a grimace.

Tony carries on as if he hasn’t heard him. “You’re grounded for thirty years.”

“I--I--I got a hundred and two on my last chem exam!” Peter blurts out.

There’s another silence that’s far too loaded for the circumstances, and then May doubles over with a wheeze and grabs onto Pepper’s arm as the latter woman cackles along with her.

Tony narrows his eyes at the kid. “Everything is negotiable. You, keep talking. You, Mr. Peralta”--he glances at Jake--“have a lot of explaining to do.”

“He knows my _last name_? Up top, kiddo, your dad’s heard of my fame as a brilliant detective.” Jake reaches out for a high five with Peter, which the boy meets with a look of bewilderment and then misses spectacularly.

“No offense,” says Peter, “but I’m like seventy-two percent sure it’s just because he’s neurotic and stayed up all night stalking your records to make sure you weren’t a serial killer or something.”

“Which you still could be,” Tony cuts in casually. “Pumpkin cookies, people?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to my writing buddies [@notapartytrick](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/notapartytrick) and [@QueenBoudicaTheGreat](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/QueenBoudicaTheGreat) who made cameos as Peter's college friends, Daisy and Jenni. Also a big thanks to [@josywbu](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/josywbu) for coming up with the exact line where Tony says "extracurriculars" with an absurd wink and Jake says "Just say Spider-Man, old man."
> 
> Also, in case it wasn't clear in the beginning, the Blip/Dusting happened in the verse for this piece, hence why Peter is 'technically' 24 but really 19.
> 
> come yell at me in the comments then eyyy <3


	12. Jacked Pomeranian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter has phone anxiety because somehow his voice missed the memo that he's gone through puberty. Tony and Harley don't take pity on him until it's too late and nothing can save them from the wrath of the jacked Pomeranian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In response to tumblr anon's request for #20: "I don't want to hear your excuse. You cannot just give me wet-willies."

Peter’s traded quips before with criminals on the streets. He’s tossed insults at bike thieves while swinging between buildings _and_ webbing up the runaway offenders. Heck, he’s asked out the girl and the boy he likes, on two separate occasions. He’s even survived spilling all his random Spider-Man secrets to an irate May with hardly a stutter or a breath in between from the sheer terror of her wrath, for heaven’s sake.

So why, oh, why, is he staring at the phone in Tony’s hand as if it’s about to implode at nuclear proportions?

“I-it’s okay, Mr. Stark, I literally don’t need to practice ordering pizza on the phone today,” he stammers with a jerky gesture of his hands in the man’s direction.

Tony rolls his eyes, momentarily oblivious to the kid’s discomfort, and barely lifts his gaze from the StarkPad in his lap. “C’mon, bud, just call them. No way am I gonna speak blasphemy patching through your god-awful order of pineapples and ham and anchovies and...I won’t even deign to remember what else.”

Peter plucks the StarkPhone from Tony’s hand but scowls at it with pursed lips. “You were never this testy when Mrs. Pepper got all her pregnant cravings.”

Tony flicks through his inbox. “You’re not pregnant.”

“But I am the love of your life.”

“Extremely debatable. FRI?” Tony raises his voice at the ceiling, his eyes still glued to his screen. “Remind me again who is the love of my life?”

FRIDAY answers dutifully: “My algorithms would suggest it’s you--”

“--See? Broken clock, right twice a day, all that jazz.”

“--But the footage you requested me to file under the folder ‘God What Am I Gonna Do with This Kid’ would suggest it is, in fact, Peter Parker.”

For the first time that evening, Tony tears his gaze away from the device in his lap to toss a glare at the ceiling. He points at the nearest camera and shares a conspiratorial look of betrayal with the kid at his side. “Do you detect sass? I definitely detect sass.”

“That’s ’cause all your children take after you,” Harley drawls from the doorway. He sounds supremely bored and barely pauses in his march of determination to the mini-fridge in the corner of the lab.

Tony twists around on the worn lounging couch to squint at Snarky Kid #2, who currently has his head thrust in the vast selection of Dr. Peppers and Mountain Dews.

“Least you’re finally owning up to your sins,” Tony quips mildly.

“Oh, no,” Harley corrects him in a tone just as deadpan. He straightens and gulps down at least half a can of soda in one go. “I was sassy before you met me. I _taught_ you sass. What were you again, before you ended up in Rose Hill? Oh, yeah. A bossy guy in sad flannels wandering around without a map.”

Peter sucks in a wide-eyed breath. “That’s _cold_ , Harls. You wear flannels too.”

“Nope.” Harley pops his _p_ , downs the rest of his drink and slams the empty can down on top of the mini-fridge. “I wear fine Southern couture.”

Tony gives his goatee a thoughtful stroke. “I somehow distinctly remember an oversized ten-gallon hat with a lace-up around the chin.”

A split-second after Peter muffles a snicker behind the sleeve of his hoodie, Harley hurls the empty soda can at his head. Peter catches it at the last second with barely a flinch and sends it flying back with a cackle.

“Excuse you,” Harley huffs. “You’re just jealous you two could never pull off the classic wardrobe of a _man_.”

“Nah, you’re right,” Peter wheezes. “I can only pull off the spandex of a nationally renowned super-vigilante.”

“Sticky vigilante,” Tony corrects him. “And it’s not spandex.”

“Oh, you’re right,” Peter amends, “it’s multi-million dollar spandex that, like, _completely rips apart_ at the slightest stabby-stab--”

“Stabby-stab--Jesus Christ.” Tony folds both hands over his face.

Harley saunters over to drape himself over the back of the couch and rest his bony chin where it is most definitely not welcome on top of Tony’s head. “So what’re you up to, Parker? Aside from annoying the shit out of our old man. Which never gets old, by the way.”

Peter holds up the phone in his hand with a look so utterly stricken by misery that it’s comical. “Trying to place a pizza order.”

“Nope. Nope, nope, nope, not touching that with a ten-foot pole,” Harley says immediately.

Tony reaches blindly behind him in an attempt to push Harley’s chin off his head and only succeeds in poking the teen’s eyeball, earning him an indignant yelp.

“That’s what I said,” says Tony. “Pineapples and anchovies, can you _believe_ \--”

“I swear we can drop the anchovies if one of you just makes the call,” Peter pleads.

Harley finally peels away from the top of Tony’s head, bored of pestering him. He swats away the man’s hand from his face. “It’s not the anchovies that’s the problem, man.”

Peter’s eyes widen further as he plays up his desperation, even acquiring a glossy sheen akin to tears. “C’mon, Mr. Stark, you can’t take my pineapples away from me! Not after all the times I webbed up Clint when he was gonna sneak up on you, and the time I accidentally drank the poisoned thing that was meant for you, and--and--after I got _blipped_ and all--”

“Okay, okay, okay, okay!” Tony throws his hands up. “Seriously, kid? Puppy eyes _and_ blackmail? You’re getting ruthless.”

Harley speaks up again and this time he is, inexplicably, sprawled on the patch of carpet in front of the two stressed-out superheroes on the couch. “Why don’t you just call Domino’s already and be done with it, Parker?”

“Because--because phone anxiety and shit!”

Tony levels him a look that speaks volumes. “Didn’t I just hear you two days ago yelling into Jonah Jameson’s voicemail about his July op-ed on Spidey being undocumented or something?”

“But that’s--that’s different! I don’t care if I’m not actually undocumented, those people have _rights_ and Jameson had the gall to call me a _freeloader_ \--”

“Remind me to ask Pepper to sue his ass first thing tomorrow morning,” says Tony. “But seriously, what’s up?”

“Yeah, Peter. What’s up?” Harley props himself up on the floor by an elbow and leans in the other teen’s direction in an exaggerated display of interest. Peter plants a socked foot in the middle of Harley’s face and pushes him away. Tony raises a look of supplication heavenward.

Peter crosses his arms over his chest like a petulant child and refuses to speak for a solid minute. Finally he mumbles in a rush, “I-sound-like-a-twelve-year-old-on helium-reading-a-script-from-a-sticky-note.”

Ineffable mirth has filled Tony’s eyes now. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

The kid heaves a bone-weary sigh and repeats: “ _I sound like a twelve-year-old on helium reading a script from a sticky note_.”

Tony and Harley share one look that lasts all of two seconds, and in the span of those two seconds share a novel-length dialogue--then promptly double over laughing.

“Oh, that’s right,” Peter whines, “laugh at the single person in the room who could bench-press a school bus.”

“No, no, no no--” Harley is wheezing, barely able to draw a breath between laughs. “A twelve-year-old who can bench-press a school bus!”

“Buddy,” Tony gasps out. “Did I tell you about the time he yanked the fridge door clean off its hinges? It’s like living with a jacked Pomeranian. _Classic_.”

Peter unfurls himself from the couch and stalks to the door. “I’m leaving now.”

“ _Dude_.” Harley chokes on his own spit. “We never told you about the time Peter grabbed his textbook so hard from his backpack he ripped it clean off the spine.”

Tony hoots in the background.

“That’s it, I’m leaving and I’m programming DUM-E to move your furniture in the middle of the night when you least suspect it,” Peter threatens.

Tony is near tears, collapsed completely on his back across the couch. He waves a hand in Peter’s general direction in some half-assed gesture of apology, but there’s no saving him now from the kid’s wrath.

A minute later, Tony jackknifes upright, his laugh morphing into an ungodly shriek. “ _Peter_! What are you, _five_?”

It’s the kid’s turn now to double over cackling. Harley howls in laughter and crawls up to his knees on the carpet to share a high-five with Peter.

“I thought--you said--I’m--twelve,” Peter manages to get out between his snickers.

“Ah-ah. I don’t wanna hear your excuses. You can _not_ just give me wet-willies.”

“And you cannot just call me a Pomeranian and hope to get away with it.” Peter’s smile is beatific.

“Uh,” Harley cuts in. “You do know I started that comparison, right?”

There’s a frightening beat of silence in which Peter swivels his head to stare straight at the other boy.

“Oh, would you look at that, it’s time for my two personal shiba inus to hash it out on the lab floor. Guess that’s my cue to go! Hands off my tech, don’t feed DUM-E more motor oil, don’t break more shit, okay byyye.”

With an alarming agility for his age, Tony rolls over the back of the couch and books it for the door, with Harley hot on his heels and screaming country profanities as Peter sprints after them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk I kinda hate this for some reason I can't put my finger on but it felt good to keyboard smash again without editing? And I really need validation rn so lmk if this trash was at least semi-enjoyable :))) Thanks ily all so much <3 -Kaleb


	13. Nostalgic Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony squints at Harley. “What the fuck are you doing here.”
> 
> “This is Tennessee,” Peter interjects oh-so-helpfully.
> 
> “Yeah, and you _were_ on your way to visit us, so given that I’m not an idiot I figured something was wrong when you didn’t show up thirty minutes ago and your GPS tracker showed you speeding way offroad.”
> 
> “You put a _GPS tracker_ on my phone?”
> 
> “Technically, Pete did it, but I was the one who tweaked the app--”
> 
> “ _Spider-Diapers_ stole my phone and put a GPS tracker on it?!”
> 
> Harley and Peter share a look. “He really is aging, isn’t he?” Harley comments flippantly. “Picking up on all the weirdest points and asking the wrong questions--”
> 
> “That’s because I have _so many fucking questions_ , you _wad_ of _cotton_ \--”  
> \--  
> Tony and the fam are on a Christmas vacation to visit Harley in Tennessee when the would-be hijackers strike. Everyone's too chaotic to do anything right except little Mr. Potato Gun Upgrade himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and the beast has awoken from a semester-long-induced slumber. I'm back at it again with the drabble challenges, people, and it's getting messier and sillier.
> 
> Dedicated to [josywbu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/josywbu/pseuds/josywbu), who sent in prompt 58 from [this drabble challenge](https://theoceanismyinkwell.tumblr.com/post/189721940158/drabble-challenge-1-150) on tumblr: "I'm just a guy with a wife, two kids and a Harley."
> 
> Come ON. It was just too perfect to pass up.

It is way too early in the morning for this shit.

To be fair, in Tony’s book any time he faces a kidnapping or death threat it’s way too early for that shit, but still. It’s half past ass o’clock and the sun has just barely started to yawn over the horizon. At least let him and the family enjoy the blazing sunrise for a bit before making them face uncertain death, you know?

Plus, it’s Christmas.

He tells their assailants as much with a scrub at his goatee and an impatient huff, or, as Peter prefers to call it, the patented Tony Stark “scratch and sniff.”

A pun he’ll have to permanently erase from the kid’s vocabulary later with a prime selection of blackmail material. On a more important note--

“Jeez, kid, why didn’t your tingly thing tell us they were here sooner?”

“For the last time, Mr. Stark, it is not a _tingle_.”

“Be glad I’m not calling it a Peter-tingle.”

“You just did.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“I dunno, my spidey thingy was flying all over the place ever since we crossed the state border. I didn’t see anything, so I figured the bales of hay were ticking off my...urban barometer of danger.”

“Christ on a--” To say that now is a classic nose-bridge-pinching moment for Tony would be an understatement.

Peter glances in the rearview mirror. “Uh, they’re gaining on us.”

“Uh-huh.” Tony mashes the gas pedal even further into the carpet, but he has a bad feeling that the hijackers are going to cut him off somewhere at the other end of this god-forsaken county road. A feeling he barely needs Peter’s spidey sense (read: hay danger radar) to confirm.

“I think they’re heading us off in half a mile--”

“Yup, yeah, got the memo, I got my anxiety disorder all on my own to tell me that.” Tony taps at his wrist to trigger the nanites to materialize into a lightweight gauntlet over his left hand. Perks of having a badass prosthetic for a right arm? Half the time to suit up for inconvenient _Fast and Furious_ emergencies like this one.

He is grateful at least that the kid piped up in time about his “very bad spidey feeling, it’s super bad, Mr. Stark, I thought it was a stomachache but I’ve been known to be kinda wrong about things” so that Tony could get started on Plan A. Tell Pepper, watch his amazing wife blaze with fury and snap on the Rescue suit faster than anyone can say _tax return exemptions_ , and cheer her on as she scoops up Morgan in her own little protective armor and jet it out of the car on stealth mode.

He really loves his superfamily. But God, if Ferrari number thirteen gets so much as a dent on the hood, he swears to God--

Tony whips his head to the side when he notices the webshooters unfurling over Peter’s wrists. “Whatever happens, you are _not_ Spider-Man today. Capisce?”

Peter’s face crumples into that puffy frown that he seems so convinced is the epitome of avenging wrath but in reality only gets people to adore him more. “I’m not gonna stand by and leave you unprotected.”

“Uh, actually. You are.” Tony holds up a metal finger to illustrate his point. “Whoever these people are, they’ve been tailing us for some time. They know we left on a family vacay and that specifically implies Peter Parker, _not_ Spider-Toddler. You suit up and show up next to me in the middle of Bumfuck and Tumbleweed? Yeah, that ain’t gonna fly. Your good friend Jonah is gonna be having a field day with his headlines. ‘The Baby Face Behind the Sticky Vigilante.’ ‘New York’s Arachnid Menace Is a Brainwashed Infant.’ ‘Iron Man Spliced Human Fetus DNA with Spider--’”

“Yeah, yeah, okay, yeah, I get it!” Peter cuts him off. “But I can’t--I can’t just _not_ suit up. You’re, like, a great grandpa now and you’re driving this car close to a hundred miles per hour and--oh _fuck_!”

Needless to say, Tony misses the chance to chew him out for the expletive in favor of worrying about bigger things. Like that freaking dent--oh, excuse me, Wolverine-grade _slash_ \--on his Ferrari number thirteen.

God, does he miss the New York layout where he can blast through blocks of blaring traffic and weave between street vendors on wild car chases and not have to worry about--about goddamn _trees_ in his way.

“You know you can blast us out of here, right?” Peter chimes in. “Like...sometime soon? Preferably right now?”

“Unless we disable these bozos, there’s no telling who they’ll communicate to. One way or another, we’d lead ’em to Pep and Mo.”

“Right. Good call.” Peter chews his lip. “We need to take them by surprise. I’ve got some taser webs, probably enough to take out five in a row…”

“It’s gotta be clean. No escapees,” Tony warns him.

Peter sets his jaw and nods up at him once from the passenger seat. “Got it.” He visibly flinches as his superhearing picks up the steady crunch of boots on gravel approaching their vehicle where it has sailed ignominiously into the underbrush.

Tony squares his shoulders, pulls his sleeve lower over his gauntleted left hand. “Showtime, kid.”

\--

Turns out to be the standard stuff. Spiel about revenge--Tony swears his enemies’ list of motives is getting more creative by the year--whining about current financial situation, diss on the Stark legacy of weapons manufacturing ( _God_ , when will they ever get the memo that he’s way more into inventing puppy-shaped Roombas now?), threat on his family, announcement of kidnap and ransom.

Except that the leader seems pretty pissed off about Pepper and Morgan’s absence.

“Where the fuck are your wife and daughter?”

“Hey,” Tony protests with only mild interest. Which, considering that they’re surrounded at gunpoint, is impressive in Peter’s books. “Knock off the language. Infant ears are present.”

Peter gets in a good eye-roll while the leader fires a warning shot into the air. 

“Where the fuck are they?” he repeats.

“Not here,” says Tony.

The next thing he knows, the leader has nodded at one of his masked minions, who pounces on Peter from behind and presses the muzzle of his gun to the kid’s temple.

Peter’s eyes widen a fraction in alarm--enough to convince the kidnappers he’s properly frightened, but to Tony who is fluent in eight different dialects of Parker body language, he knows that Peter knows he could easily wrestle his way out of the headlock before his captor has the reflexes to actually fire his arm. Nonetheless, Tony’s stomach churns as visions of Peter’s body flash through his mind, painted with fountains of red.

Nope.

No.

Not when it’s freaking _Christmas_.

“Now,” the leader speaks again, “I’m gonna ask a third time, and then I’m not gonna ask again. Where. Are. They?”

Tony swallows. “Long gone. I genuinely couldn’t tell you even if I tried. The speed that my suits fly? Supersonic shit. They could be in Indiana. Canada. Finland.”

The leader’s nostrils flare, but he doesn’t signal to the man holding Peter to pull trigger. Thank the stars. Tony must be at least half-convincing him of his willingness to cooperate.

The leader takes a step closer, and with it his voice drops to a menacing baritone. “Here’s what you’re gonna do, Stark, and you’re not gonna deviate from anything I tell you if you want your little orphan tag-along to live through this. You’re going to use your tech and you’re going to locate your wife and kid, and you are going to show us every step of what you’re doing. No funny business. The instant I sense any funny shit on your part, this one’s brains are gonna be zombie feed.” He nods at the guy holding Peter, and the goon responds by pressing the muzzle of his firearm a tad harder against the side of the boy’s head.

Miraculously, Peter just looks annoyed at this point. Tony could throw back his head and laugh out loud right now if not for the fact that his panic has begun to catch up to him and his mind is racing for a way to let Peter sense his distraction coming without tipping off their captors first.

Peter, genius kid that he is, seems to almost telepathically sense his dilemma and offers that sweet, sweet segue that Tony needed. “Tony?” he says, his voice quivering _just right_ to take on that innocent and helpless edge. “Please be careful.”

“Always am,” Tony quips. And then to their kidnappers, as he makes a show of pulling up a satellite GPS feed on his phone: “Why you guys gotta be ruining people’s holidays like this, huh? Pretty sure if Santa’s got a naughty and a nice list, y’all would just be on the downright nasty. I _literally_ just retired. I’m just a guy with a wife and two kids.”

“And that’s the problem,” the leader sneers, obviously about to launch into another speech fueled by his entitled bullshit, but he doesn’t get the chance because at that exact instant Peter knocks the gun from his captor’s hand, headbutts him in the chin, slams his heel into the guy’s shin and then proceeds to judo flip him with the force of a ten-ton cement truck in the span of less than a second.

It is also at that exact same moment that Tony’s Ferrari and two of the three Hummers surrounding them explode in a spectacular cacophony of flames and shrapnel. Peter flies at Tony and tackles him to the ground to shield him from the spray of glass before Tony can even wheeze out a warning.

Bless this kid. Bless this goddamn kid.

And then like a Rambo-grade hallucination straight out of a direct-to-TV B-movie, Tony’s ears are slammed with an ungodly screech from the small dark silhouette hurtling right at them through the haze of the explosion.

It takes another ten to fifteen seconds of Peter manhandling Tony to take cover behind the remaining Hummer and then joining the bullet-riddled fray before Tony actually registers what is going on before his eyes. And when he does, he barks out a laugh that quickly devolves into a choke and a wheeze.

“Scratch that. I’m just a guy with a wife, two kids and a Harley.” With that, Tony stumbles upright onto his knees and whips out his gauntlet to blast at the leader who was barreling toward him with a snarl. The guy flies backward and plows into the asphalt with a sickening crack and a tangle of wool and boats.

Seriously. Why do all his enemies have to have the theatrics and fashion sense of the Phantom of the Opera?

“’Cause they take after you,” Harley huffs, hauling Tony up to his feet. “Homoerotic tension and all that, probably.”

Did he say that out loud? Tony squints at him. “What the fuck are you doing here.”

“This is Tennessee,” Peter interjects oh-so-helpfully. He’s back, jogging over to their designated area behind the only standing Hummer after having webbed up the last of the unconscious goons into a veritable hill-sized cocoon. Judging by the muffled yelling, it seems he’s webbed their mouths, too.

“Yeah, and you _were_ on your way to visit us, so given that I’m not an idiot I figured something was wrong when you didn’t show up thirty minutes ago and your GPS tracker showed you speeding way offroad.”

“You put a _GPS tracker_ on my phone?”

“Technically, Pete did it, but I was the one who tweaked the app--”

“ _Spider-Diapers_ stole my phone and put a GPS tracker on it?!”

Harley and Peter share a look. “He really is aging, isn’t he?” Harley comments flippantly. “Picking up on all the weirdest points and asking the wrong questions--”

“That’s because I have _so many fucking questions_ , you _wad_ of _cotton_ \--”

“Where even _are_ Mrs. Pepper and Mo-mo?”

“Circling back as we speak,” Peter supplies, after a glance at his phone which, miraculously, has not acquired any new cracks on its screen.

Tony swivels back and forth between his two science babies, at a loss for where to start first. “Wait, wait. _Wait_. Rudolph on a _bicycle_. How did you even _get_ here?”

For the first time Tony notices the almost steampunk-esque goggles perched on Harley’s head when he pushes them up higher into his sandy hair, hefts his...giant potato gun model onto his other shoulder and points in the distance toward the quad parked innocently some distance away.

“Courtesy of my neighbor, Mr. Mitch Boggings II.”

Tony passes the back of his hand over his eyes. “Are we--are we not going to talk about the fact that this family loved the name ‘Mitch Boggings’ so much they had to just go and repeat it for three entire generations.”

He’s caught off guard by Peter whacking him on the arm and, okay, so maybe he deserved that for all his adrenaline-drunken rambling. “Mr. _Stark_ , are we not gonna talk about the _potato gun_?”

Harley shoots them both a chaotic grin. “Side note, I switched out the potatoes for something more...festive.”

“Oh! Is that how you ended up blowing up the Ferrari?”

“ _You blew up the FERRARI?!_ ”

Harley opens his mouth, as if to go off on a rapid explanation about eliminating getaway vehicles for the criminals and all that, but he shuts it again just as quickly as if deciding it’s not even worth it. His eyes light up when he glimpses over Tony’s shoulder the periwinkle flash of the Rescue suit touching down on the pavement with a clang.

“Mrs. Pepper! _Mo-mo_! Please come save us from your man-child! I think he’s broken.”

“Hello to you too,” Pepper laughs warmly as she surveys the damage. She glances with a smirk at Peter, who is hovering over a stricken-looking Tony much in the same way a baby shiba inu would circle a kitchen counter nervously. “Looks like you webbed first, asked questions later.”

Peter opens his arms and kneels to engulf a squealing Morgan as she races to check on her older brother. “Actually, I gotta give all the credit to Harls here for the distraction. Couldn’t’ve done it without him.”

Tony steps closer to crush Pepper in a hug of relief and simultaneously whack the two miscreants as he passes them. “Couldn’t possibly have managed to blow up the Ferrari without dear Harls, either.”

“C’mon,” Harley whines. “That entire year you met me was full of explosions. Think of it as an...homage to nostalgic times.”

“You’re not getting any _fucking_ panettone this year, Keener.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was...weird? A keyboard smash?? a purely unedited mass of trash that somehow made my silly Christmas Eve spirit happy??? I hope you enjoyed! there's way more prompts lined up where that came from. and you're all more than free to send me [prompts](https://theoceanismyinkwell.tumblr.com/post/189721940158/drabble-challenge-1-150) at my tumblr, [theoceanismyinkwell](http://theoceanismyinkwell.tumblr.com)! (I'm also taking drabble prompts for Eliott + Lucas from Skam France. :D)
> 
> My latest vlog about teaching Spanish at university (turn on cc's to follow along in english): <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fxMzaoUPcjU>
> 
> Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Blessed Kwanzaa and a wonderful holiday season full of rest and love to all of you <3 -kaleb


	14. Potato Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I take it back,” says Tony, gesturing at them with his screwdriver as they pile into the elevator. “I have so many questions. For example. Why the potatoes? Why not a pillow? A bag of old shirts? Or, I dunno, if you're real committed to the vegetarian theme, a _cabbage_?"
> 
> Peter sniffs. _Sniffs_. "To feel the actual struggles of pregnancy, I gotta carry the weight of an actual child. Like a metaphor for the weight of the world he already carries on his tiny shoulders the minute he's born into this cruel, capitalist, hegemonic society that--"
> 
> "Right, so, I'm gonna go out on a limb here and assume that idea came from Michelle."  
> \--  
> Poor Tony just wants to know why there is a miniature sack of potatoes in his lobby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For josywbu, who sent in prompt #12: "I'm pregnant," and who requested to make it crack, pretty please.
> 
> As ever, your wish is my command.

Uncharacteristically, Tony happens to be downstairs by complete coincidence at the exact moment that his two favorite motor-mouthed teenage tag-alongs bound through the door.

“On one hand, I am morbidly curious to know why you've suddenly sprouted a beer gut at the age of, like, five, but on the other hand it’s you, Parker, so I’m not even gonna ask.”

"Oh!" says Peter cheerily. "I'm pregnant!"

The flat look Tony serves him has Ned doubled over in stitches within two and a half seconds.

"It's for--for health--c-class, Mr. Tony, sir," Ned wheezes.

Tony shifts the flat look to him, and then back to Parker.

Which of course prompts Peter to launch into a breathless and needlessly detailed rambling on their weekend homework for health class, for which he and Ned will have to write a report on the challenges (for there be many) of caring for a baby doll.

Tony scrubs at the side of his face, feeling distinctly like he is way too old for this shit.

"So you mean to tell me that's a baby doll right there under your nerd shirt? Hate to bash on the educational props or anything, but that there is one lumpy baby."

Peter yelps in realization. The next thing Tony knows, the kid has reached underneath the hem of his sweatshirt and pulled out a sack of potatoes. 

Tony swears to God, the look of pure and unadulterated triumph on Parker's face, next to Leeds' colorful mix of chagrin and amusement--and at the center of it all the tiny orange bag of goddamn root crops--is so bizarre that if he snapped a photo right now and sent it to Pepper, she just might dub it modern Renaissance art.

“I take it back,” says Tony, gesturing at them with his screwdriver as they pile into the elevator. “I have so many questions."

From the corner of his eye, Ned seems to be vibrating.

Tony holds up a finger. "For example. Why the potatoes? Why not a pillow? A bag of old shirts? Or, I dunno, if you're real committed to the vegetarian theme, a _cabbage_?"

Peter sniffs. _Sniffs_. "To feel the actual struggles of pregnancy, I gotta carry the weight of an actual child. Like a metaphor for the weight of the world he already carries on his tiny shoulders the minute he's born into this cruel, capitalist, hegemonic society that--"

"Right, so, I'm gonna go out on a limb here and assume that idea came from Michelle."

"He came up with the potatoes all on his own," Ned points out helpfully.

"And _why_?"

“Peter broke his baby doll,” Ned chimes in again with far, far too much glee considering he is Peter’s best friend. Brother from another mother. Partner in crime-fighting. All that jazz.

Accordingly, Peter erupts into pubescent spluttering noises at him.

Tony narrows his eyes at the Spider-Child. “So let me get this straight. You. You think that a sack. Of _potatoes_. Could adequately substitute for a fully mechanized baby doll.”

“Which is why we’re here. Y’know. Standing in the midst of state-of-the-art R&D. Cutting-edge technology. Stark Industries, pinnacle of--”

“Flattery will get you absolutely nowhere. I am not repairing your damn baby doll.”

“But--but--for me?”

“Don’t you dare pull those eyes on me. I’m not looking. La, la, la, I can’t see you, can’t hear you--”

“For the sake of my _education_ , Mr. Stark!” Peter stage-whispers. “My _future_ \--!”

“Dial it down a bit, Peter, you’re laying it on too thick,” Ned advises him in an equally theatrical voice.

“Yeah, squirt, for the sake of your education and my sanity, first order of the day is learning how to, oh, I dunno, _not break school-issued shit when it’s given to you_.” The elevator dings, comedically timed with the exact second Tony narrows his eyes at Peter. "Speaking of which, how _did_ you end up breaking a baby doll?"

"Made in China?" Peter squeaks hopefully, at the same time that Ned--sweet, sweet traitorous Ned--replies:

"They don't exactly say how to care for a baby doll when you're Spider-Man."

Tony inhales sharply. He swears, if he gasped any harder, there'd be pins and needles in his freaking brain.

"You know how I'm always telling you that you need to keep the crime-fighting in long johns persona separate from the nerdy chihuahua persona?" Tony walks briskly into the lab ahead of the boys. "Yeah. This--this is exactly what I'm talking about."

"But Mr. Stark!" Peter rejoins sweetly. "You know how I'm always tuning you out because I'm busy counting the gray hairs in your beard?"

Tony punches a button on his keypad from the inside and the sliding door zips shut. He indulges in a grin of complete and utter vindication when the kid slams nose-first into the glass. Better yet, Ned is once again losing his shit, bent over and near tears behind Peter.

"But Mr. Parker!" Tony singsongs through the glass. "You know how you're standing in my tower? Surrounded by my tech? Good luck getting in, sticky boy."

Peter graces him with a scowl that somehow still comes out angelic. Locking his gaze with Tony's, he raises his hand and slams his palm against the print reader on the exterior keypad.

The door hisses open.

Tony punches the button again without breaking eye contact.

Peter slaps the hand reader again.

Between them, the door groans open and closed, open, closed, open--

"This is making me cringe harder than J.K. Rowling's tweets," Ned announces. "I'm going back upstairs to grab a snack. Text me when you're done, like, telepathically murdering each other."

"Potato child," Tony spits out in the most ironically fond tone ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: This was written in my phone while I was hiding in a bathroom at a very grown-up New Year's party that my mum dragged me to tonight. Yay social ineptituuuuude !!
> 
> Okay so once again this was supremely stupid but so much loads of fun to write?! It might even be my new favorite short one from this whole collection xD lemme know what you think? :D -kaleb


	15. Parker Promise (tw: Blood and Injuries)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Take it easy, Mr. Stark,” says Peter. When Tony tips his head a bit to the side, he can just make out the kid clambering onto the bed and settling cross-legged at an uneasy distance from him.
> 
> Tony lets out a huff. Time to face the music. “I’m sorry I didn’t mention the whole…” He gestures roundly. “Axe thing. I was pretty sure it didn’t even hurt that bad, and I came here straightaway without checking--”
> 
> “--Like an idiot--” May interjects with a reluctant fondness.
> 
> “--So I literally had no idea I was, like, basically a nanosecond away from Sleeping Beauty-ing it out there on your very nice rug. So.” A painful shrug that ends up pulling way too many muscles. “Like I said, I’ll cover the cost of replacement, everything, whatever needs done, you name it. It’s the least I can do. I’m really, really sorry.”  
> \--  
> When Pepper gets kidnapped and SHIELD is compromised, Tony desperately turns to the only place he knows is safe: the Parkers' apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's for writerwisegirl who sent in on tumblr: "67 and 44 so help me I will make you write angst."
> 
> 44: "You need to see a doctor."  
> 67: "You're bleeding all over my carpet."
> 
> Sorry for the brief intermission of angst/slight whump, folks. It had to be done. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ But I promise you a badass May and loads of comfort at the end!

Tony is too convincing of an actor for his own good that Peter doesn’t even realize the man is injured until the smell of pennies hits him.

And then the next thing either of them know, there’s the heart-lurching thump of May’s drinking glass knocking to the rug and the gasp of her voice--

“Tony, you’re bleeding all over the carpet!”

“Right. Sorry. About that. I can definitely replace that, three-inch-thick fibers, part mohair, the softest you’ll ever lay toes on, I swear--”

Peter lurches across the little space left on the sofa between them to--to grab at Tony, at his shoulders, at _something_ , because he’s gotten that crazed look in his eyes when he slips into babbling mode to deflect attention from the seriousness of his pain or injury. Peter should know. It happens to be his favorite defense mechanism as well.

Peter nearly doesn’t sense May’s presence beside him until the hem her robe whispers against the polyester tufts of rug and she kneels down at his side with a whiff of her Elizabeth Arden eau de toilette. She places one hand on Tony’s knee--Peter realizes, distantly, almost wildly, that it’s shaking--and with the other she pats Tony’s cheek. The man has stopped speaking altogether.

The shaking isn’t coming from May’s hands anymore. It’s a persistent and terrifying tremor that engulfs Tony’s skin, his bones.

“Tony!” May says, a little sharply.

“Where’s the bleeding coming from?” Peter whispers. He eyes the drip, drip, drip of carmine on the carpet, too dark, almost, to be human, to be fresh. 

It’s almost as if May doesn’t hear him at first. With a paradoxical tentativeness mixed with measured and professional movements, she reaches forward to pinch Tony’s brow and cheekbone and open up his eye a tad more. “You need to see a doctor,” she mutters. Is it to herself? She seems to realize herself, then, realize the fear that sounds too palpable in her voice, because she corrects herself and turns to address her nephew. “He probably needs to see a doctor. He may or may not be going into shock.”

Peter physically feels his fingertips go cold as the blood drains from his face. “Like emotional shock or--or--the other kind of shock?”

May doesn’t answer for a long moment. Perhaps it’s a small mercy for them both.

Instead, she rolls up Tony’s right pant leg with a kind of desperation to her efficiency and very deliberately says nothing as she stares at the gash weeping from his shinbone.

“I thought Doctor Cho said she was out of the country,” Peter says. He’s carding his hand through his hair. The weight of his phone in his fingers feels useless.

“Doctor Cho isn’t the best option anyway,” May bites out. Harsh, perhaps, but pragmatic. “She’s a geneticist. I would suggest the ER, but--”

“--But Tony cannot be seen anywhere in civilian areas right now. Or possibly ever. Depending on how everything goes,” Peter finishes for her.

May nods. She purses her lips. “On the bright side, it’s not as deep as it looks, and I’m fairly confident I could dress it well enough just to prevent infection.”

Then, only then, do the Parkers share a look--a subtle look, a private one, but a long one nonetheless that speaks of gunshots in alleyways and weeks sleeping in the station wagon and urgent calls from Karen in the dead of night about Spider-Man’s fall from the roof of a five-story bank.

“You got this?” Peter says.

“We got this,” says May, and with it her eyes both harden and melt with reassurance for the boy in front of her who, for all his super-strength and enhanced senses, is quaking with helplessness for his father figure.

\--

Tony meanders toward consciousness almost reluctantly. There’s pain there to be found, some part of him vaguely registers, and memories and responsibilities and fears that he would rather not reacquaint himself with.

The first thing he does absorb when he finally opens his eyes is not bright lights--whoever tucked him in bed was sensitive enough to draw the blinds--but the tortuous, maddening pressure inside his skull.

“Must’ve been one hell of an oil pipe,” he rasps. Because that’s--that’s been an actual thing in his list of would-be murder weapons used against him. Multiple times.

A hand he senses rather than sees belonging to Peter is waved over his eyes until someone else-- _May?_ \--slaps it away.

“It wasn’t an oil pipe,” May says, “unless that’s one more invisible injury you failed to report.” 

Tony’s closed his eyes again, briefly, but he can hear the vibration of judgment in the tightness of her voice. 

She goes on to clarify, “You’re working through a fever right now. Low-grade. Pretty standard for what your body is going through right now, with the gash and everything.”

Tony lifts his hand to rub his eye and must have grown so unacquainted with the feel of his own body after hours out of commission that his fist ends up catapulting itself at his face. He winces.

“Take it easy, Mr. Stark,” says Peter. When Tony tips his head a bit to the side, he can just make out the kid clambering onto the bed and settling cross-legged at an uneasy distance from him.

Tony lets out a huff. Time to face the music. “I’m sorry I didn’t mention the whole…” He gestures roundly. “Axe thing. I was pretty sure it didn’t even hurt that bad, and I came here straightaway without checking--”

“--Like an idiot--” May interjects with a reluctant fondness.

“--So I literally had no idea I was, like, basically a nanosecond away from Sleeping Beauty-ing it out there on your very nice rug. So.” A painful shrug that ends up pulling way too many muscles. “Like I said, I’ll cover the cost of replacement, everything, whatever needs done, you name it. It’s the least I can do. I’m really, really sorry.”

Neither Parker speaks for a minute. When Peter does, it’s nearly a warble.

“No apologizing, Mr. Stark. We get it. Really, really get it. You had to-- _have_ to find Ms. Potts, so that was your first priority.”

Tony twists his head to look at the kid then, truly look at them, and an unspoken understanding flows between them. They both speak from personal experience, from the depths of their fears for their loved ones.

“I’m sorry for dragging you into this, though, kiddo.” Tony swallows. Swivels to look at May. “You too, May. God. I wasn’t even thinking, coming here--but SHIELD--”

“SHIELD’s been compromised. We know. You did manage to tell us that yesterday,” May says gently. She lays a hand ever so softly over Tony’s, and the smile she casts him is far too sad for her years. The lick of professionalism she had been forcing over her visage earlier has been erased by an emotion Tony fears too much to name. All he knows is that May’s eyes are shining, and his own are stinging, and god damn it, it sounds like the kid is starting to breathe heavier too--

“It’s okay, Mr. Stark, you can say it,” Peter says thickly. Even through the hidden tears, Tony glimpses that specific tone that tells him Peter is about to utter something completely and profoundly stupid, and he is about to love it.

“Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope.”

The grin that slams Tony is so fierce and so blinding he feels he can’t breathe. “Fuck you, Parker. Laughing at a man like this.” And then he’s erupting into giggles--no--he’s laughing, laughing and laughing and laughing and he doesn’t even know where it’s coming from until his diaphragm begins to ache and the sound of it all turns hysterical.

“I’m sorry,” Peter whispers, though not with the uncertainty of his younger self when he’d thought he’d overstepped. Quite the contrary.

May joins them on the other edge of the bed as Tony’s laughs taper to a wheeze. She reaches over under the pretense of checking the bandage under the blanket, but Tony knows better. After all, May’s body language is but a refracted mirror of Peter’s.

“Hey.” Tony nudges her elbow with a foot. “Thank--thank you. I mean it. This must be--you don’t--” He deflates in a sharp exhale. “You don’t deserve this. But I really appreciate it.”

He catches sight of her mouth twisting an instant before she turns away to grab the bottle of water from the nightstand. She thrusts it at him.

“Drink, Tony.”

He does.

“None of us deserve this,” she says. “But that isn’t the point of it all. We do this because we--we love you. And Pepper.” She winces, almost as if she’d stumbled over a word that neither Tony nor Peter were aware of. “We love you both. And God knows this kid right here”--she reaches across Tony’s legs to shove half-playfully, half in mourning at Peter’s shoulder--“would volunteer for twenty times your injuries if it meant you didn’t have to get hurt.”

Peter offers a watery eye-roll. “Geez, May, and all this time you said you never understood my teenage angst.”

“Only thing to understand about you is that you’re a menace,” Tony says, and it’s an easy jab, weightless, a token buoy for all of them.

Peter lifts his head to lock eyes with him then, and it’s quite possibly the fieriest gaze that Tony has ever seen.

“We’re gonna get her back, Mr. Stark, I promise.”

Tony nods. He’s too stopped up for words--words that would feel irreverent now anyway in the face of the Parkers’ oath. He looks over to May, who’s tucked a lock behind her ear and pulled off her glasses to stare back at him with the somber love and fury that first told him, eons ago, that she and Pepper Potts could be the best of friends.

“Tony,” she says. “We mean it. That’s a Parker promise.”

The corner of his mouth lifts in a genuine smile, and he feels lighter than he ever has in hours. Tony squares his shoulders, juts out his chin.

“Together with Stark stubbornness, we’ll be unstoppable. I’m ready for the whiteboards. Let’s get planning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a miracle that I managed to cut off any amount of angst before the 2K mark, but let's be honest it's because I set a timer on myself to stop typing after 45 minutes because I really, _really_ wanted to finish watching an episode of Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency before going to bed :'D
> 
> I'm still taking prompts from my [first drabble prompt list](https://theoceanismyinkwell.tumblr.com/post/184655738898/drabble-challenge) and my [second one](https://theoceanismyinkwell.tumblr.com/post/189721940158/drabble-challenge-1-150), if you're dying to request anything! I'll take Iron Dad, Elu (Eliott/Lucas from Skam France), Queliot (Quentin/Eliot from The Magicians), Phan (Dan/Phil) or Merthur (Merlin/Arthur).
> 
> As always, I love to hear from you!! Thank you for your continued support and I adore you all <3 -kaleb
> 
> P.S. I am getting a doctorate in the humanities, not science and...science-y things, so per usual take my hand-wavey medical elements with, like, an entire pint of salt.


	16. Never Trust Your Not-Girlfriend or Your Not-Dad (Spideychelle)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Now _listen_ , you are neglecting your non-girlfriend here--”
> 
> “She’s not my non-girlfriend! MJ, tell him, I asked you out, we’re like, almost not-non-girlfriend-and-boyfriend because you said--”
> 
> “Pay attention to your date, Spider-Tights, I raised you better than this.” Tony points a finger in Peter’s face. “Do _not_ say you are an orphan, I swear you have used that more times than God cursed Egypt with the plagues--”
> 
> “--But I _am_ an orphan.” The kid goes cross-eyed following Tony’s finger. “And you’re just a meanie. Who layers tees and interrupts my dates to complain about cheese sticks and eat old-people soup.”  
> \--  
> Poor Peter just keeps breaking things because of his uncontrollable super-strength. It's not his business that Tony and Rhodey keep laughing at him about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's for [@frostysunflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostysunflowers), who sent in prompt #141 on tumblr: "Use your words."
> 
> I'm sure this turned out more chaotic and nonsensical than anything you ever imagined, but nonetheless I am delighted to present you with this precious trash. :) I did switch it up and make Peter's background relationship with MJ instead of Ned for this drabble just because her character seemed to fit the scene a lot better and they *are* hella cute together. So there's that.
> 
> Also, be prepared for an absolute brutal abuse of italics. I will not apologize.

Considering that the first thing Peter did when he discovered he had radioactive super-spider powers was proceed to break his closet doorknob, his bedroom doorknob, and...a whole bunch of other doorknobs, one would think he would have learned to ease up on the super-strength ages ago.

So suffice it to say that Tony Stark is, for lack of a better phrase, pretty freaking amused every single time the kid sidles up to him with that specific wide-eyed contortion of his face that screams _I broke something again and no it was not part of a mission nor was it a robot or anything superhero-related and yes I think you’re about to scream at me and disown me so I’ll delay this confession as long as possible until I actually combust from having to keep the secret any longer_. The first time Peter finally stammered out that he’d snapped Tony’s comb in half while borrowing it to fix himself up for his date with MJ, Tony had stared at him for all of two seconds before doubling over with the most painful bout of laughter that he had to physically slap his knee and then ended up falling to his knees while he wheezed on the pavement.

Needless to say, the second Rhodey came outside and heard vis-à-vis more stuttering on Peter’s part just why his best friend was convulsing in glee on the sidewalk, he, too, started guffawing so hard that he fell backwards on his ass.

And no, getting laughed at by Iron Man and War Machine for four minutes straight behind a beaten-down Domino’s is _not_ the bestest and most awesomest way to spend your Saturday morning, shut _up, Ned Leeds_.

So no, Peter does not enjoy it one bit that it’s becoming a pattern, this whole breaking-shit-and-watching-your-childhood-hero-laugh-in-your-face-about-it nonsense, thank you very much.

“Oh no,” Tony says, as he strolls into the living room and--get this-- _sniffs_ the air. “Oh _heck_ no. Peter, did you break something again?”

“You know I hate breaking anything except class barriers and stupid gender norms,” Peter says far too evasively, in a tone far too many octaves high.

Tony squints at him. He definitely broke something.

MJ props herself up over the back of the couch and takes an insouciant drag of her juice box. “He’s been like this all afternoon. I told him he didn’t have to talk like an NYU activist our entire date, but he doesn’t listen.”

“That’s because A, his palms are sweaty, and B, he started tuning you out the instant you looked at him,” Tony points out. He raps the top of Peter’s head as he passes by the couch. “Spider-Squirt, why you two kiddos staring at a blank TV? Is this--is this some new sort of anti-tech zen meditation your generation is trying out or what?”

Peter holds up his hands, his puppy eyes aiming for just a tad too innocent. “Mr. Stark, you of all people should know that _me_ and _zen_ don’t belong in the same sentence.”

“Oh, that’s right, because all you bring to my home is death and destruction. And chemical explosions. And tangled shoelaces and _cheese sticks_ and _videos of corgis_ \--”

“Tony!” Peter hisses. “Not in front of MJ, please!”

MJ slurps down the rest of her juice box with overly affected boredom. “Get used to it, Parker, in this house your worst enemies are your not-girlfriend and your not-dad manchild.”

Peter looks like he’s about to have a stroke from not knowing which part of that sentence to react to first. Tony, for his part, is opening and closing his mouth repeatedly like a spluttering comedic antihero from some underrated Pixar movie.

“I--I came out here to get some cream of broccoli, in _peace_ , and you come in here and attack me in my own house?”

“The _least_ ridiculous part of what she said was ‘manchild’!” Peter argues. He gestures at the entirety of Tony’s...person. “Who even layers long-sleeved and short-sleeved tees anymore? It’s twenty seventeen!”

“I was drunk, high or passed out for a lot of the eighties and most of the nineties, so ex _cuse_ me for allowing myself to be a bit of a rebellious teenager every once in a--”

“--And who the heck eats _cream of broccoli_ at three in the afternoon--?!”

“Not anywhere near half as bad as your store-brand cheese sticks, Underoos, I swear to _God_ those things are full of powdered wood cellulose, did you know Pepper showed me a documentary on YouTube all about it--”

MJ suppresses a full-blown grin as the two manchilds bicker over her head, and chomps contentedly at the remainder of the Cheetos from the bag propped up between her and Peter’s knees on the couch.

“Now _listen_ , you are neglecting your non-girlfriend here--”

“She’s not my non-girlfriend! MJ, tell him, I asked you out, we’re like, almost not-non-girlfriend-and-boyfriend because you said--”

“Pay attention to your date, Spider-Tights, I raised you better than this.” Tony points a finger in Peter’s face. “Do _not_ say you are an orphan, I swear you have used that more times than God cursed Egypt with the plagues--”

“--But I _am_ an orphan.” The kid goes cross-eyed following Tony’s finger. “And you’re just a meanie. Who layers tees and interrupts my dates to complain about cheese sticks and eat old-people soup.”

“ _No_ , I came in here to investigate what that stench of guilt in the air was, ’cause I could smell it all the way from the lab two floors up.”

MJ ducks her head with what is most definitely a patented Jones Smirk.

Tony narrows his eyes at the both of them. “What did you do.”

Peter’s hands fly up again. “I--I--I swear it wasn’t intentional, Mr. Stark, sir, and I just really, really, don’t, um, oh God, _pleasedon’tdisownmeorlaughatmeortellMisterRhodeybecause_ \--”

Tony flicks up a hand to halt Peter’s word vomit in its tracks before the teen gets any more crimson in the face. “Slower, Pete. Use your words.”

“He broke the remote,” MJ supplies with an unsettling cheeriness. She holds up the remains--oh, excuse me, smithereens--of said TV remote in her hands for Tony to see. “And he asked FRIDAY where the controls for the screen were, so she directed him to the panel and he, well, broke that too.”

Tony shoots MJ a wolfish grin. “I adore you, Miss Jones, did I ever tell you that? So articulate. So level-headed. Remind me to mail you a fruit basket when this is all over.”

The instant Tony turns to Peter, the kid shrinks even further into himself and his mass of flannel of denim, if it’s at all possible. “Don’t worry, Pete, you know everything in my house is controlled by an AI, right? That funny sarcastic Irish lady you’ve been talking to in my ceiling? Yup. Yeah. She’s hands-free, bud. Meaning you could’ve asked her to do anything without touching a button.”

Some small part of Tony actively worries that Peter Parker might be the first case of a toddler having an aneurysm, at the rate that the blood is rushing to Peter’s face, but the other part of him is silently cackling with too much glee. 

“’M so so sorry, Mr. Stark, I just panicked.”

“That’s all right,” says Tony. His mouth is definitely not twitching. Not at all. “The buttons and the remote don’t affect anything as long as FRIDAY’s still up and running.”

“Oh, thank God,” Peter breathes.

“Let’s say I forget about the whole thing and you two carry on with your date with whatever it is you kids watch these days, hm?” Tony proposes. “Dora the Explorer? Nature channel? Knock yourselves out. _But_ \--and there is a but--” Here the man rolls up his sleeves and cracks his knuckles with an energy that Peter does _not_ trust. “I get to tell Rhodey-bear, and he gets to come up for dinner tomorrow and tell you all about how this was not funny. Not in the slightest. It was so boring that he fell asleep as I was telling him the story.”

“Somebody just, like, pulverize me now,” Peter groans, and he buries his head into the crinkling Cheetos bag. MJ takes some pity on him and pats the top of his head as she and Tony share a silent smirk and a fistbump.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm 24 and yes, I will defend mozzarella cheese sticks with my life, _mom_.
> 
> I legit got so carried away as I was furiously typing this that I almost forgot to insert the prompt line :')
> 
> holler at me on tumblr: theoceanismyinkwell


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